


Triage

by LVSH



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Anti-Android Language (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mass Casualties, Medical Trauma, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-06-20 11:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15532809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVSH/pseuds/LVSH
Summary: "Forgetting who you are, to become what someone needs you to be, maybe that's what it means to be alive."Detroit, 2038. Harper Hospital is known as the epicenter of the city's greatest breakthroughs, and the most tragic cataclysms. This is the story of a surgeon — a man with a tragic past — and the lost android who finds a connection with humanity in the form of a vulnerable physician.





	1. The RK800

**Author's Note:**

> _“There is no good in arguing with the inevitable._  
>  _The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.”_  
>  \- James R. Lowell  
> 

  


_Date  
**AUG 14, 2038** _

_Time  
**AM 06:02:05** _

_“This is Grand Park. Thank you for riding Detroit transit system.”_

The murmur of morning activity ebbed into a steady flow of hushed conversations and contented hums over cups of coffee. The electric rail train slowed to a halt at it’s forthcoming stop, highlighting the train’s handful of patrons in an illuminating glow of warm heated sunlight as the rush of humans boarded and departed. The blaring of vehicle horns and airborne drone traffic whirring overhead diminished into a steady hum in the distance, fresh morning air blowing into the vestibule every time the doors consistently slid open and shut with a muted whir. 

The sonority of a CTN Tv news reporter broadcasting the morning news on the transparent overhead screen had become a reticent lull in the background. 

_“— and according to Cyberlife, the newly developed ‘nano-android’ has shown promise in recent clinical trials. But despite this miraculous advancement in modern medicine, this breakthrough has left some people conflicted. In the words of Derek Ross, head of the National Life Extension Institute, "the first immortals are now among us". Eradicating cancer, brain disease, and organ failure is going to unleash "unprecedented levels of life expectancy". But famous economist and author Yuri Makesh is warning of an unintended consequence—”_

Attentive eyes from beyond the Android compartment looked ahead with interest, processing LED whirring yellow succeeding the absorption of its environmental information. Quiet, peaceful. The humans rushing to make their early morning commute to work. The exhausted, half-awake faces. Their hands clutching hot cups of coffee and electronic tablets. 

_“Next stop, Adelaide.”_ The electronic system chimed as the automatic doors slid shut with a gentle whir.

The Android noted the information. Five more stops until the approach to Canfield and exactly fourteen minutes to arrive at Detroit’s Harper University Hospital. An untimely appearance to the Android’s exemplary assigned mission was reprehensible in the critical line of work it preceded. Getting invariably stranded in traffic and arriving late by taxi or bus would’ve had a setback of precisely thirty-one minutes, and the very notion that it would ever divert from its perfunctory habit of being on time was an otherwise unthinkable notion. 

Cyberlife Androids were designed to be perfect, without any flaw. To entertain the thought of being anything else than what they were designated to be was an illogical concept.

There was absolutely no room for error. There was a mission to comply and high standards to meet. 

“Wake up dear, next stop.” The android sees a sprightly clean-cut man in a casual blue suit rise from his seat, reaching out for the handle of his spotless black briefcase to take his wife in his hand — _Wife_ , surmised by the silver wedding band slipped over the man’s finger, glistening brilliantly with the sunlight that reflected off it’s high-shined surface.

“Yeah, just a minute.” She says, the woman’s voice teetering on the edge of a drowsy sigh as she lifts herself up from the seat with a noticeable struggle — one hand reaching up for the metal beam hilt to steady herself with as the other protectively curled around her largely distended abdomen.

Attentive eyes onlooking from the compartment deducted an intriguing revelation as the woman turned around.

> **WOMB  
> ** **38 Weeks Gestation**  
>  **Fetal heart rate 136/bpm**  
>  **BPD 9.0 cm / AC 30.0 cm**  
>  **Estimate weight of 2.85 kg**  
>  **Fetus in ideal occipito-posterior position**

Precise Interwoven formulas and vital activity expanded over the Android’s vision in varying interface stages, the range of information cluttering Its vision with overwhelming amounts of data. It gave a few rapid blinks before returning back to a normal visual state, silently mulling over the data it accrued. The fetus was at an ideal stage for labor.

The Android’s attentive eyes absently shift from the woman's abdomen to an additional figure in the anterior of the train. One particular passenger boarded in an apparent rush, incoherently mumbling something to himself and unsteadily pacing in circles at the front. Hands were scratching at his neck, arms, stomach — almost _clawing_ through his clothes. Identifiable as symptoms synonymous with Red Ice withdrawal. It could have been. Detroit was ground zero of the narcotic epidemic, after all. 

The Android doesn’t spare a thought before its gaze fixates on vigilantly scanning the human from a distance. 

> **TRACES OF RED ICE  
>  Acetone, Lithium, Thirium, Toluene, Hydrochloric Acid**

It gives a slight shift of its brows, correct with the initial assumption. Of course.

_“This is Adelaide. Please watch your step.”_

The unstable man unintentionally shoulder bumps another disgruntled businessman in the middle of his hysterics, earning a quite indignant glare in his direction as the white-collar worker stepped off of the train car. But despite all the ataxia up front, the Android couldn’t help but notice the sliding doors closing far too soon.

Precisely five seconds too soon.

The train abruptly gives an odd jolt in its excursion, sending the woman beyond the other side of the android compartment stumbling backwards on her heels with a sharp gasp in a startle, clumsily holding tight to the nearest metal beam. She had stumbled close, huddled near the Android compartment. 

In the distraction of the train’s unexpected initiative, the android behind the barrier stumbled on its own footing too, optics flickering back and forth from the tinted windows to the muttering patrons inside. The couple in its vision had missed their stop on account of the train leaving the platform unauthorized. It was clear that they were expressive of their confusion.

The announcement system audibly malfunctions, shrill static interrupting the other patrons as they muttered and articulated among themselves — An unexpected event to their morning commute something to converse worryingly about. 

_“Does that usually happen?”_ The Android registers someone question another with apprehension in their tone, followed by a second passenger denying with a hesitant _“No? I don't know.”_. The two unidentifiable teenagers who noticeably exchanged looks of fear shifted uncomfortable where they were standing, trying to lean over and peek beyond the tinted windows to see what was going on. But on the happenstance of an unusually powerful jolt, the two teenage patrons and every other standing passenger were sent harshly careening against the glass panels of doors and windows. Their faces wrenched up with hisses of pain, and there is an uncontrollable lurch forward with a wince-inducing metal screech that follows suit with a fluctuating tilt of the cabin. And then the gasps and screams broke out.

The blaring red ominous warning signs suddenly crowding the Android’s vision were overwhelming. 

> **_DANGER._ **

The train’s violent tremor provokes a sharply drawn wail from the crowd as the train exterior erupts in a cacophony of shrieking metal-on-metal, a sharp _‘KRRSSHHT’_ evoking even the other Androids behind the barrier to draw a wince at the disorientating noise and glance around frantically in an attempt to assess the situation — the grind overlapping with the sound of shaken patrons giving unified cries of panic as time takes a sharp, unanticipated turn. The android stumbles hard on its footing and grabs onto the metal separation beam for support. 

The Android ciphers the situational statistics in mere milliseconds. It knows precisely what's about to happen, and It’s processing LED circles red as its eyes stare ahead with apprehension. 

> _**WARNING** _
> 
> **_WARNING._ **

A myriad of red warning alerts materialized in the android’s vision, cultivating an urge to act out of self-preservation against the impending danger. However, there was another code of orders that adamantly persisted in the android's sight, an integrated safeguard protocol to shield the standing figures in its periphery. It was impassable to tune out the warning call that pressed for immediate attention — _Protect the human._

When the vestibule wavered dangerously from the force, it knew it needed to make a decision.

> _**SEEK IMMEDIATE SAFETY** _

Following the string of warnings, the Android surges across the blue divider between cabin sections to take the pregnant woman by the shoulder, guiding the human into the very rear of the compartment with the intent to shield from the imminent danger abounding ahead. As expected, maelstrom ensued within seconds of the Android’s decision; the outer metal carriage expelling a deafening grind of casting that erupted in bright sparks from the tinted windows. It faintly registered the sound of distal catastrophe ahead and tensed, growing uncertain of the outcomes it had pre-constructed.

When it felt the weight change of the cabin expelling off the tracks with an invisible force, the android immediately twisted it's body into position to absorb the force and serve as a cradle to cushion the human from the impending impact. 

Unlike humans, it wouldn't feel the pain. 

Following the violent plummet thereafter were the petrified screams discharging from the cabins below. It rose an unnecessary sharp breath from the unsuspecting Android, LED blinking red ceaselessly. It felt like _eons_ had passed until the sound of cataclysmic distress from the crowd forced its disorientated mind palace back to reality. Its eyes remained shut tight — registering the hard pressure of the woman’s nails clutching tight into the artificial skin of its bare forearm. The Android tightens its grip like a powerful vice to the black metal beam that separated the Android compartment from the humans — the intrusion of metal their only lifeline.

It hears the distinct sound of windows shattering on collision with the anterior train car, and the very front-expanse of the train had folded in on itself like a crushed soda can. The impact sent shards of glass blasting inward with pressure, compelling the Android to brace for the hit with a reinforcing hold on the shaking, screaming passenger in its arms. It shields her head with both hands as protection from the onset of glass shooting inward with a forceful blow. The Android could hear the woman shout her voice raw, tense and trembling with unhinged fear. With the arm tightly coiled around her, it could unmistakably feel the thrum of her heart pounding — _tachycardic._ Followed by an unusual registration of something wet smearing over the Android’s hand as the woman shifted and writhed. In that minute, It couldn’t identify the fluid.

The final shockwave that lurched the both of them up against the rear interior wall left them shaken, neither one of them shifting an inch in the smoke-billowing aftermath of what was construed to be a catastrophic mechanical failure. In the disquieting stillness of it all, the Android refused to release its grip on the metal bar — most of it mangled from the shock of the impact, but still mostly intact by one side of the wall. And in that brief moment of in-between conscious thought and a disorientated mind palace, the Android stood there with eyes kept shut, waiting for the phantom panic to retreat back into the depths of where it came. It took longer than it should. 

When it cracks its eyes open, there's a minuscule flicker of a notification in the corner of its vision.

_Software Instability **^** _

The train settles with an eerie creak. The sound of car alarms blare ceaselessly from beneath hundreds of pounds of rubble, smoke billowing dark through the cabins. It hears the choked cries of humans trapped underneath mangled heaps of metal; groaning sickly, coughing heavily, gurgling up fluids. Shards of glass cracked and shifted under the humanistic weight that writhed over it and if it had a stomach, it probably would have been floored with nausea at the gruesome sounds of human distress. 

But naturally, protocol enforced the urge to assess the trauma of the situation and act on what was deemed necessary, and that’s what it was going to do. Yet, even with the mission in sight, it still couldn’t entirely shake off the slightly disorientating, mind-numbing shock. 

Reflexively, the Android’s hands loosen their hold on the woman as it peels itself away from the wall with a tensive expression, certain of its directive now that most of the shock and disorientation had subsided. It took a short time to briefly perform a self-diagnostic scan, several cautionary warnings flooding its vision. 

> **LACERATION DETECTED ON COMPONENT #6745j**
> 
> **THIRIUM VOLUME AT 89%**
> 
> **ALL VITAL COMPONENTS FUNCTIONING**

No major damage. Getting away with just a laceration on the left arm and minor thirium loss was the lowest anticipated outcome of all the reconstructed scenarios it had processed, but it supposes it can't complain getting away without catastrophic system failure. That was a concurrence even the android wouldn't argue with. 

Releasing the tight hold on the woman's figure, it shifts to face her directly, attentive eyes examining terror-stricken irises. She was in shock. Its gaze scanned the remainder of her, searching for injuries apart from the mild wound sustained to her forehead. Freshly smeared blood steadily dripped down her left temple. 

“Ma’am, are you alright?” A hand reaches out to examine the small-scale head wound by stray glass, assuring that it wasn’t dangerous if left unchecked. While it wasn’t, It was however going to need several sutures. 

_“My — My husband.”_ The woman’s voice trembles, and so does her bloodied hands as one outstretches to gesture behind the Android administering aid to her. _“Oh my God.”_ She desperately cries out, disbelief and horror overtaking her tone. Her shoulders shook relentlessly with the fear-induced sobs that wracked her entire body. 

“Everything is going to be fine. Hold this to your head and maintain pressure.” The Android assures, thinking quick to utilize the cashmere scarf around her neck as a makeshift dressing. It wasn’t ideal nor sterile, but it would have to do for now.

The Android was about to say more to appease the shaken woman when it froze at the sight of bright blue blood pooling profusely underneath them. It caught the sight in the corner of its eye. A mangled limb of silicone and wire components almost indiscernible — a stretch to even call it an arm anymore. The woman had clearly taken sight to the thirium seeping up into her clothes, staining her skin, and her gaze apprehensively follows the trail to the source. Right away, she’s frantically heaving and kicking backwards with a cry in a wordless panic, trying hard to create as much distance from the mangled android's blood as possible. 

The unidentifiable android victim of the incident lie right at the other’s feet, destroyed by metal debris pierced straight through its thirium regulator. Body hanging limp over the mangled compartment separator. It was a morbid sight; the android’s green eyes still wide open, the bottom half of its limbs torn apart beyond repair. Thirium leaked out across the expanse of the floor — even splattered across the walls by the force of the impact it clearly sustained. The sight of artificial flesh ripped apart left such little to the imagination, that it had shaken the woman into tears of sheer panic. It even startled the Android who lay eyes on its unknown counterpart. That could have been…

No, disregard that. 

_Distract her._

“Ma'am, can you tell me your name? What’s your name?” The Android questions firmly, trying to evaluate the probability of isolated internal head trauma, but to mostly distract her heightened senses from the rest of the gruesome scene it still had yet to turn around and assess. It tries to get her to keep her gaze straight ahead, analyzing her eyes for any other unseen signs of damage. 

Her pupils were blown wide. An adrenaline-induced state of fight or flight. 

“Cl—Clara.” She heaves out through uncontrollable heaves. ”Clara Coleman.” 

The Android presses a reassuring hand to her forearm and when it lowers down to press its knees against the floor, it feels the warmth of a secondary liquid. Less viscous than thirium. Its gaze quickly lowers down to the ground, lifting up the hand that was suddenly drenched in clear fluids. It runs an analysis in milliseconds.

> **AMNIOTIC FLUID  
>  ** **Premature rupture**  
>  ** < 30 seconds old**

Even the expectant mother seemed to have been fully aware of the circumstance when her eyes flew wide open in shock and her mouth fell open with dread, hesitating to relinquish her hold over her abdomen. Her hands trembled as they reached down.

 _“Oh God... Oh God, My baby —”_ The woman upon seeing the fluid pool underneath her, breaks out in a whole new panic of sobs as she lifts her knees up from the ground just high enough to frightfully glance down at the fluid that drenched through her clothes. She was shaking profusely, caught in a pure state of shock.

“Clara, I need you to stay calm and listen to me.” The android says with an utterance of urgency over the sound of trapped passengers shouting and screaming from the other cabins. It was hard to block out the nightmarish repercussion of chaos breaking through the cabins. It has to cusp both sides of the woman's face to gather her attention and orientate her to the vital situation at hand. 

The current survivability chance was at a steady 95%. But even it knew that all of it could change very suddenly if it wasn’t attentive to every prospective detail from here on out. 

_“Don’t move._ Stay right here, I’m going to go get help.” The Android speaks to her firmly, and the woman furiously shakes her head with tears and traces of wet mascara trailing down her face, brown strands of hair plastered against her blood-dampened forehead, hands emphatically clutching her stomach. She pleads and begs with all the distress in her shaken voice she could muster, crying out helplessly in a fit of fear “No! No, no! Don’t leave me here, _please_ , don’t go”. 

It feels the pressure of her cold hand, moist with a blend of bloods and fluid, hastily reach out to grab the android's forearm tightly, tugging it back with enough force to hold in place. It automatically hesitates, briefly seeing traces of thirium caught on her silken shirt where a glass shard would’ve pierced through her abdomen were it not for the arm that shielded the fetus from the prospective trauma. But the Android dismisses the minor inflicted injury to itself. It was a non-critical wound. The only thing that mattered was assuring the victim's survival. 

The Android takes the woman’s shaking hand in its own, trying to focus its gaze on both her and the mess of other victims screaming for help in the forefront of the cabin. Orders were conflicting. But a solution was contrived in seconds that would benefit the both of them. 

_“Alright_ , alright. I won’t leave,” It reassures her with a careful touch to her shoulder, kneeling back down to her level. She audibly elicits a shaken breath of reprieve, but it wasn’t exactly effective enough to stop her from wavering dangerously close to another episode of panic. “But you need immediate medical attention.” The Android states, taking her by both arms and guiding her forward to part with the surface of the interior wall. “Are you able to move?” 

The woman gives a cautious, experimental bend of her legs before shifting underneath the android, bending at the knees. Her voice elicits a shaken, tinny whine of acquiesce. 

“Good, that’s good. This may be unpleasant, but please try to remain as calm as possible and focus on breathing.” It carefully guides her arm around the back of its neck and feels firm fingers instantly cling on, using an arm to secure underneath her to aid in her rise. Rather than letting her put too much weight on her own, the Android hoists her up effortlessly, their hands in a precise tangle to aid in the correct distribution of weight. It’s a functioning plan. Now they just need to find the safest route out of this mess.

With the initial step fourth, it hears a hearty groan of pain slips out from her throat as her head gives a reactive lull forward, feeling her legs giving out beneath her with the sudden debilitating flare of discomfort that overcame her. It hears her give a sharp breath — in, out. It gives her a second to catch her breath, knowing the reason why.

“ _Uggh, It hurts. It hurts_.” Clara cries, but it concludes that it’s only the contractions she’s feeling. It gives an acknowledging, _“I know, I'm sorry,”_ and does its all to keep her steady and standing. But when the Android turned around fully for the first time, It was almost taken aback by just how worse it really was in the anterior quarters ahead.

Bodies and collapsed seats were piled up on one another in a nightmarish resemblance to a mass grave, though almost _all_ still alive. Suffering, groaning out in agony. The smell of burnt flesh mingling with smoke permeated the air of the vestibule, and the cloud of smog that wafted through the cabins made it extremely difficult to accurately search for survivors or scan for vitals. 

At this rate, It was going to have to drive on whatever version of instinct it had in its code. 

To that, the Android had no retro action. It guides the passenger silently through the rubble, careful to avoid stepping over the parts of limbs it knows belongs to unconscious humans. Glass crunched loudly under the weight of their heels as they carefully trudged through the tilted train cart that'd been caught at a complicated angle. The resilient grip on her was her only lifeline during the trek to the shattered window in the rear, trapped at an awkward forty-five degree angle from the ground. Their only means of escape with the lowest probability of complications. 

It firmly shifts itself to stand in front of her, steady hands wrapping around the surface of her shaking forearms, feeling the pressure of her own unsteady hands mirror the same hold. The Android eases her figure down with cautious, kneeled steps backwards until the only way out is for the ailing woman to crawl low on her knees to evade the low clearance of the mess of tangled wires and metal debris. 

Occupied with the task of trying to gauge their surroundings, it doesn’t entirely notice the trail of blood left in the woman’s path until she begins to lazily drag her feet across the ground the further they parted from the scene. They barely make it ten feet away before Clara begins to groan, head lulling weakly against the Android’s shoulder.

“Wait, stop... Stop for a minute I… I don’t feel good,” Clara slurs her words just moments before the weight support under her abruptly gives out, becoming sudden dead weight in the Android’s arms.

“Clara?” It raises its voice, acting on impulse to keep her upright from falling. “Clara, say something. _Clara!_ ” It gives her shoulder a brief shake, and all she gives is a faint whine, her eyelids fluttering close. She winces under the bright sunlight, struggling to keep them pried open.

“Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. Clara. Focus.” The Android rouses her with a forceful rub to the chest to keep her conscious long enough while lowering her body carefully down to the ground, earning a groan and a reactive grimace and recoil of discomfort from her. Only then, noticing the puddle of blood underneath her and the thick trail it left behind.

The Android breathes out an expletive, realizing what had happened with an overwhelming analytic scan of vitals for both her and the fetus. It was all in red warning. Neither one of them were within acceptable ranges. They were declining fast. So In a last ditch effort, in a fit of desperation, it calls out to the meddling crowd of civilians watching the scene unfold.

“I need some help over here!” It shouts, one hand gently pressed to Clara’s rising and falling abdomen to monitor fetal vitals while the other waved frantically in the air to catch any human’s attention.

By chance, a wandering bystander on the scene comes rushing up with a phone held up to their ear, frantically uttering something over the phone line before kneeling down at their side to help. The humans eyes gentle, scared.

“Sam Lane — Off-duty firefighter. What happened to her?” The man kneels over Clara with concern etched into his features, shoving his phone into the back of his pants pocket before checking her pulse and assessing her state. That's when he sees the bleed, and stills. The man's face pales.

“The victim's name is Clara Coleman, 38 weeks pregnant. Possibly suffered a placental abruption as a result of the crash — It appears she’s going into trauma-induced labor. She is losing a mass amount of blood from an intrapartum hemorrhage and the fetus is showing signs of fetal distress. Her blood pressure also seems to be dropping. I need you to stay with her and keep her conscious long enough until help arrives. The bleeding isn’t severe, but she needs medical attention immediately or the both of them could—” 

"Wait, you’re an _Android_ — I thought you were—” The man stares blankly as if he hadn’t heard a single word that was just said, looking as if it were the oddest thing in the world. His face was etched with profound bewilderment and it was clear just how untrusting his demeanor had become. 

“Yes, I—”

“What on Earth kind of model are you?” His face twists up, eyes intense. Trying to study the android, judging. 

“I am an RK800 prototype model designed specifically by Cyberlife for medical services, however I don’t see how this question is relevant to the situation.” The Android retorts, its gaze focused on the firefighter’s own with intent. "The victim is in dire need of medical attention. We don't have time to waste." 

“ _...Right_.” The man hesitates with his compliance to agree and move on, but he gives a terse shake of his head and redirects his attention back to the woman at his hands again, disregarding the android tending across from him.

“We need to move her away from the scene and make sure that she is seen first with the other critical victims when help arrives. Clara and the fetus are in serious critical condition and at a higher risk the longer she stays here.” The android states knowingly, pressing a flat hand against the lower of her abdomen to feel for fetal position and uterine trauma. But it doesn’t get a chance to finish before it’s interrupted mid-administration by a pair of bloodied hands. 

“No… no,” Clara hastily takes hold of the android’s hands to still them, pushing both back towards its chest with the weakest amount of strength she could manage. It could only stare back at her. “Don’t… _Please_ , find my husband.” She pleads with slurred words, her expression heavy with pain. _“Please. His… His name is Ryan... Find him.”_

The Android stills, taking a second to glance back into the chaos of the wreckage to make the final decision with her weakened hands over its own. Realization dawns — There are still many trapped victims in need of help. 

“Stay here. Keep an eye on her.” The android says determinedly to the other man while hastily rising to its feet. “I will be right back.” 

With a parting glance and a perceptive nod of an unspoken avowal to one another, it fixates its gaze over at the hazy scene of disarray ahead, sprinting in a return run to the crash site and the train cabin it emerged from with Clara. It doesn’t know where to start — optics flickering back and forth between several victims disorientated and groaning, others sobbing and pleading for help, pinned underneath metal debris. There are bodies hanging limp over the edge of the train car windows, many lying on the concrete, and some forced in place by protrusion of metal straight through their limbs. 

With an intent gaze, the Android cautiously crawls on hands and knees through the labyrinth of shattered glass and bent beams of metal, squeezing through a narrow torsion of destroyed seats that were visibly, up close, drenched with human blood. Still warm and fresh. 

A still body was pinned underneath all the debris. 

“Sir! Are you alright?” The Android hollers amidst all the commotion, straining with a grunt to pull itself up close to the victim. The man appeared to be unconscious, and it firmly presses two fingers against the carotid artery to find a pulse. When that failed to produce results, it runs a final scan. 

> **HEART  
> ** **Asystole**  
>  **No signs of life**  
>  **Time of death: AM 06:14:04**

The Android retracts its hand away from the deceased victim. It averts its gaze elsewhere with the reminder that there was still a task to follow despite the casualties. 

At the corner of its eye, it catches a figure crawling across the expanse of the glass-ridden floor, hysteric and crying with forceful heaves of air. It appeared to be the face of the same teenage boy that was standing by the doors seconds before the impending crash. But the other wasn’t in sight.

“Th-they’re dead, they’re _dead_ ,” The boy heaved and stuttered over his words in the midst of a mental shock, hands grabbing and clutching at the metal bars to keep himself steady as he worked to drag himself out of the wreckage. His face was completely drenched in a heavy, thick coating of blood. The Android immediately takes the hysterical boy by the arm and guides him forward, running a scan to find the source of the profuse bleed on his head. But results showed that there wasn’t any. The blood wasn’t his. 

“This way, over here.” The Android urges gently, pulling the shaken teen forward in guidance towards the window exit. As soon as he sees the boy frantically crawl on his haunches out the window, it redirects attention back towards the cramped anterior. 

Its processors struggle to keep up with the fuller picture of vitals and results of the aftermath. After an immediate analyzation, dozens of human profiles overwhelmed its internal interface with identification and trauma conditions. Out of the twenty-seven passengers in the cabin, only nineteen were still showing active vitals. The results were traumatic, and the many survivors left alive were barely hanging on by a thread. 

Regardless, It follows through with triage protocol — guide the green and yellow-tagged out of the scene, cast immediate attention to the red, and bypass the black-tagged entirely. The Android cautiously stepped over the unconscious and deceased, moving forth with the knowledge that it couldn’t save everyone, but maybe by chance the few critical with the highest survivability probability in sight. By some ephemeral mercy, few passengers were fortunate enough to crawl out on their own hands and knees and seek safe refuge outside, but other victims didn’t share the same luck to simply get up and walk out. Some lay unconscious on the floor, bloody, pale, barely holding a pulse. 

The most ill-fated trauma victim of the scene was penetrated through the femur by a five-foot metal pipe and immobilized by heavy debris, forcefully pinning the victim down to the floor. The android identified the victim as Ryan Coleman. 

Blinding fog occluded its vision initially, but there was no doubt in its mind that this victim was at the very threshold of balancing on a very delicate line between survival and death. On its immediate approach towards the foot of the distressed passenger, the trauma analysis indicated an alarming problem on sight.

> **PROTRUSION WOUND  
> ** **Shattered Femur**  
>  **Femoral Artery Puncture**  
>  **Absence of Perfusion**  
>  **35.2% Blood Loss**
> 
> **HEART  
> ** **Ventricular Tachycardia**  
>  **Systolic BP <100**  
>  **Hypotensive**
> 
> **Increased Diaphoresis  
>  ** **Stage 3 Hypovolemia**  
>  **Probability of Survivability 72%**
> 
> **70%**
> 
> **68%**

The numbers on the interface fluctuated abnormally. 

_Not good._

_“—m’ gonna die. Oh god, I’m gonna die,”_ The man repeats the words like a mantra on uneasy staccato breaths, his face wrenching up with raw anguish and hot tears. His fingers tensed and shook against the fabric of his ripped suit, trying hard to avoid meeting the sight of the metal bar painfully protruding through his crushed femur.

“You’re not going to die, Ryan. Help is on the way, we’re going to get you out of here.” The Android reassures with a gentle inflection to its tone, making fast work to lift the metal debris from the wound. 

The man gave a sharp groan from the pressure, his eyes screwing shut. Blood pooled from out underneath the leg where it was pinned still and right away, the android leans forward to untie the man’s black tie around his neck in order to craft a makeshift tourniquet several fingers above the wound to seize the profuse blood loss. It gives both ends of the makeshift strap a tight wrench outward to tighten, earning a vehement groan of agony from Ryan. His head is thrown back with a sharp hiss through his teeth, fighting with consciousness to catch his breath.

It takes a while before he regains enough sense to redirect his gaze back on the face of the one urgently tending to his wound. He visibly hesitates.

“Y—You— can’t promise that.” He forces out on a strained tone, releasing a shuddering breath of blinding pain.

The Android silently stills in its administrations for just a second, hands bloodied with the warm fluids spilling out of the wound it was trying to compact with the man’s ripped trousers. The rebar had nicked the artery. It wasn’t sure of anything regarding his fate anymore. 

It didn’t say anything. Simply kept compressing. 

_“Shit,”_ Ryan groans, face severely wrenching up. “I knew we shouldn’t have taken the train this morning. I just… had this feeling. Some stupid gut feeling.” He strains to speak his words, eyes focused intently on the deeply dented ceiling. “But my wife Clara, she insisted, god she—” He suddenly pauses mid-breath, a dawn of realization seemingly washing over him. 

“Clara!” He repeats, panic stunning him into a sudden hysterical madman. "Is she alright? Is she— Where—" 

It didn’t need to conduct a scan to realize his stress and heart rate were spiking dangerously high with the additional anxieties.

“You wife, Clara Coleman, is safe. She is currently being treated outside by a firefighter on the scene. I need you to remain calm. Your wife is in good hands.” It consoles. A stressful effort to lower the human’s own stress levels. It seems to restore confidence to Ryan to a degree though, but despite his lack of panic, his pulse was still alarmingly irregular.

“ _Phh— An—droid,_ ” It hears the man suddenly sneer on a breath, and it couldn’t help but spare a glance. It barely has time to question the unusual connotation before he’s speaking again. More bitterness and grief in his tone than heard prior. It feels the human’s gaze burning intent on the red LED attached to its temple. The dead giveaway. 

“Can’t believe... ‘m about to die... in front of an _android._ ” Ryan forces out the verge of a sarcastic laugh with a brim of pain to the act, but winces subsequently with the excess usage of air. 

Another analysis reveals his chances.

> **64%**
> 
> **62%**

Irrefutable evidence that he wasn’t going to make it without immediate intervention.

And _certainly_ not without extricating him from the creaking vestibule of the train. 

“We need to get you out of here. The structure is becoming extremely unstable and has a high chance of collapsing.” It cautiously states while simultaneously trying to reconstruct a scenario with the lowest risk of victim trauma in the extraction. But every sequence still had a risk of complications, no matter what route it tried to assess. Ultimately, It was just up to the android to deal with the aftermath of it. 

“I have to warn you, this is going to feel very unpleasant.” It warns with all honesty, fingers carefully prodding at the bottom of the victim’s leg to feel for the end of the rod of metal. It was jammed into the floor bed of the train and wouldn’t budge without forceful removal from the metal debris it was jammed in tight to. The chances of this extrication disengaging the femoral artery was 32% — hardly a statistic to be playing a game of chance with. Every motion would matter in the outcome. 

The 32% would be a success. 

“Take a deep breath. You may want to look away.” It says, gaze focused. Ryan simply groans with his jaw clenched tight, clutching the blood-stained shirt over his stomach in preparation for the worst. Handling a firm grip on the underside of the metal, the android curls its fingers shut. Artificial muscles draw tight, and its fingers retain the muscle-memory of all sense of technique and precise movement in that one moment where it all mattered. Hand drawn into fists, the android took the crook of the man’s leg in one, and gave a precise, forceful yank of the metal bar in the other. It came undone from the ground with a sharp clang, the metal bar moving along with his mangled leg. The android was careful not to touch the offending object, it being the only thing keeping the man from profusely bleeding out on the spot.

But like a wire wound too tight, Ryan snapped. And with a lung full of air, he _screamed_.

Taking that as the cue to drag him out while he was still barely on the vestiges of consciousness, the android hastily scoots up behind his front and lifts him up underneath his arms, dragging him towards the vestibule door that had been forced wide open in the crash. Hauling him carefully onto the concrete, and outside of the wreckage and into the bright morning sunlight. 

The android lies him down flat and immediately rushes back to his gaping femur wound, assessing the aftermath that was to come with an underlying sense of quandary evading what was normal for protocol. But there was no room for questioning what was unexpected. Not when an echoing alarm interrupts its own thoughts from thinking any further. 

The resonance of several emergency sirens was an incredibly relieving sound to hear closing in on the scene. 

But the man bleeding out at his hands was still a matter that couldn’t be left unattended. The exposed viscera of his shattered femur was more demanding of medical attention than anything. It couldn’t imagine another victim being seized in a state so critical as this human was. 

And perhaps that’s why the man starts to banter off in delirium. 

“...am... nuh..” The faint noises suddenly arises from Ryan, leaving the android reeling to provide a straightforward answer without at least trying to understand _what_ he was saying. It thinks it’s the delirium talking.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—” It tries to digress, but is immediately cut off.

 _“N... na—me.”_ The man weakly insists, words forceful on each bated breath. Ryan's bloodied hand rose up to grasp at the android's scrubs, his wet fingers clenching into the fabric where the android's model was displayed in bright blue. 

The Android falters on the sudden suggestive command. But even machines knew to answer a dying man. Delirious or not. 

“Connor. My name is Connor." The answer is conveyed with the barest of emotion. But the android's eyes spoke a differential truth. 

Ryan was barely able to vocalize the word on his tongue in lieu, releases it on nothing but the bated breath of a whisper. Then shortly after, his vitals immediately plummeted. 

“Ryan?” Connor presses a hand flat against his chest, giving it a forceful rub to agitate a response. Nothing.

“No, come on, Ryan. Talk to me. Come on.” The other hand releases hold on his thigh wound and flies upward to his chest, crawling up to his side to enact on the chin-lift maneuver to open his airway. Nothing. The command rang clear as bells. Engage protocol for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. 

“Come on, stay with us. _Come on."_

Both hands pressed firmly into his chest with rhythmic compression's, disregarding the overspread of the man’s own douse of blood smearing across his chest. 

The Android hardly registers the chatter of paramedics rushing up behind with bundles of equipment in their clutches, hauling them to the ground with a heavy thud. Only when human hands begin reaching out and clipping away at the man’s clothes to latch electrodes to his skin for an EEG monitor and begin an intravenous line, does Connor extrude the man’s state and vitals without coercion. Never delaying chest compression's, even as Connor notices at the corner of his vision the second team of EMT's come to Clara Coleman's aid.

“Push one milligram of epinephrine. On the gurney — Keep doing chest compressions.” A womanly paramedic orders Connor without a beat, hoisting the stretcher up on its wheels with both victim and rescuer in tow and steadfastly continuing its downward trek to the ambulance.

The chain of commands mingling with radio chatter left for such a clamorous field space in its wake. The unsatiated crowd of civilians intrusively leering close to the scene for a view was caught in a brief side-eye glance, but hardly recognizing the faces of any of the crowd behind the plethora of phones and flashing news cameras. 

There's something almost disturbing about it, Connor thinks. The humanistic urge to capture fatal tragedy on camera for the world to see at the luxury of their fingertips. The android thinks there's some bitter, underlying reason why humans find interest in their own kinds suffering, but it was a philosophy best left for the theoreticians of their own species. Hardly a conviction for a machine to mull over while kneeling over the chest of a dying man. One of their own, especially.

“It isn't working. Push another gram of Epi.” Connor urges, relentlessly pumping the man’s chest without letting up. 

> **52% Probability of Survival**
> 
> **Viability: 14 Minutes Left**

**_____**

6:42 AM.

Early enough to be on time, but apparently not early enough to avoid colleague confrontations on the hospital veranda. Not even 10 feet away from the entrance and the morning is already delivering promises of monday-incidental annoyances.

A sigh releases a billow of steam over the rim of a steaming hot cup of coffee clutched in a bare hand. 

“The fact that you’re resisting my insight on this case just proves that you think you’re better than everyone else. You won’t listen to what anyone has to say. When are you gonna let this guise of ego go, Dr. Anderson?”

Hank stills, lips parted on a caught breath of words that were left trapped on his tongue. The statement had irrefutably struck a chord within him. Yes, there was truth in that he wasn’t exactly keen to relishing in a sort of vulnerable trust towards anyone in this Armageddon of a hospital. He had always known himself to be a crude man, but to have the one man he could actually confide in as something akin to a good friend utter such a sentiment in more grandiose terms felt like having the heart itself shanked out of him. 

_That stung a little._

“That’s not for you to worry about, Dr. Collins.” Dr. Anderson retorted, drawing an aberrate sip from his coffee to prevent further quips. It was none of his business, anyways. It wasn’t _anyone’s_ business. 

“It is when you’re neglecting your attendings.” Dr. Collins shot back without a damn second to spare. A grimace overturns his expression. “You can’t keep letting personal matters get in the way of your duties. Not when other patient’s lives are hanging in the balance here.”

“Bullshit,” Hank retorts, “These ‘attendings’ are just a bunch of machines, they don't have feelings. They mean nothing to me. If I had any say-so in the matter, I would have all those plastic pricks thrown in the back alley dumpster if I could.” His attempt at maintaining self-control became apparent in the way it was slowly dissipating beneath the words of his colleague. 

“If it weren’t for those ‘machines’, we wouldn’t have been the first hospital in Detroit — In the whole _nation_ — to be the forerunners of a monumental medical breakthrough with the nano-android trials. You can deny and resent them all you want, Dr. Anderson, but they aren’t going anywhere and you'll have to accept that sooner or later.” Dr. Collins says lightly, sparing a sigh at the disparaging look Hank had cast in his direction. “Just look at the mortality rates. They’ve been the lowest we’ve ever seen since they’ve been contracted with us. You can’t turn a blind eye to that. Even you have to admit, something that extraordinary is worth your appreciation.”

“You know what I think, Collins?” Dr. Anderson starts on the edge of a scoff, “I think that all they’ve discovered is a way to delay the inevitable. Humans just jerk each other off on the chance to win an award for a high and mighty accomplishment that doesn’t mean jack shit in the end. Besides, what does this have to do with the Dawson case?” Hank comes to a short halt at the entrance of the automatic doors, turning to fully face Dr. Collins. “Because I _thought_ that’s what we were talking about.”

“Dr. Anderson,” Dr. Collins exhales, sparing a short pause. “You’re a good man, and I’ve respected you for a long time. But God almighty, you are _stubborn_.”

“Goddamn right.” Hank takes another sip from his cup, mulling over the sound of distal inner-city ambiance instead. The accumulation of rising sirens in the distance briefly slips from his attention as he rebounds his gaze to the man waiting with expectancy, arms folded sternly over his chest. 

Ben sighs. 

“Well,” Dr. Collins shrugs his shoulders, giving a click of his tongue. “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

Though before Dr. Anderson could open his mouth in retort, the once-distal sirens suddenly came full-force as a police squad car came skidding up to the ER entrance, tires screeching to a halt on the black asphalt. The barrage of noise leaves both Collins and Anderson spinning back on their heels, reeling at the sudden intrusion. 

“ _Help!_ I need help over here!” They both hear a shaken officer holler as he rushes over to the rear of the car and wrenches the door open, compelling Dr. Anderson to abandon his coffee on the ground and rush over. But what his gaze caught in the backseat wasn’t what he was expecting to see at this hour of the morning. Blood, everywhere.

His gaze flew up to the intrusive sound of a secondary approaching siren, compelling him to follow in pursuit of more injured victims. 

Until another patrol vehicle came skidding up the road. 

And another. 

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Dr. Anderson fights to constrain his own internal panic as he rushes over to the closest approaching squad car, assessing the trauma of the victims shoved into the back seats. A middle-aged woman and a teenage girl. Both shaken to tears, covered head to heel in blood.

“There was a mass casualty train crash on the intersection of Broadway and Witherell. We — We just piled them in and drove to the nearest hospital.” The youngest cop explains on a bated breath. 

“How many victims at the scene?” Dr. Collins speaks up behind the two. The young officer practically paled, his hands visibly shaking.

“ _Dozens._ ”

“Jesus Christ—” Hank nearly choked on his own dread as he hoists the wounded teenager from out of the backseat into his arms, the gruesome sight making his heart lurch. The thick shard of glass protruding from the girl's forehead was nothing he'd never seen before. It wasn't the injury that shook him, but the fact that tragedy doesn't pick and choose its victims. And this one was still only a child. 

How the young girl was still alive with a wound that vicious was beyond him. 

Dr. Anderson careens around the edge of the vehicle in haste, dread already beginning to gnaw at his gut. It wasn’t often the hospital suffered the vices of mass casualties — Hank having only experiencing a small handful of those his career. He knew what was about to come.

And every time, it made his heart drop.

Adrenaline kicks his system into overdrive as he comes rushing through the doors of the emergency with the victim's mother following in tow. He doesn’t even need to spare a glance to know that the trauma bay has erupted into a madhouse, bustling with victims groaning and crying in fits of wavering levels of pain. 

“Dr. Montague, Page everyone on-call. I don’t care what department they are, everybody’s trauma now. We need all hands, no one leaves!” Dr. Anderson shouts over the chaos towards the nurses station, earning a nod of haste from the head RN and the remainder of trauma in response. It was hard not to let his train of thought get derailed by the clamor of voices and the girl's mother screaming hysterics behind him. Though he didn’t voice it out loud, he bristled the thought on repeat to himself. _Focus._

“We got a mass casualty coming in! Train crash, three dozen passengers! Clear every room in trauma bay. We’re gonna convert the waiting room into triage — have maintenance bring down extra cots, chairs, everything.” The trauma resident, Dr. Montague, demands sternly over the din while scouring the trauma bay. “Security, lock down the walk-in entrance. From now on, all patients come through the ambulance bay. And you heard Dr. Anderson — Every doctor, nurse, and tech on-call gets in here now!” 

It was implicit in the way the active staff scattered on the word, guiding the new patients into the trauma rooms accordingly. And the wave of relief that overcame him at the sight of six scrubbed up doctors and nurses barging in from the swing doors was a sight to behold in oncoming armageddon.

“Dr. Miller, get this girl a head CT, stat.” Dr. Anderson mutters off to the next attending that had come up rushing to their aid, leaving Hank to tend to the next victim. 

The coterminous gurney from outside rolls into the bay, and the first thing his gaze lands on is the gruesome sight and stench of blood pouring down the miserable victim’s arm, hand draped off the side of the stretcher. The paramedics on either side of him are pressing firmly on his forearm, but it clearly wasn’t enough by the looks of it. 

“Guy was ejected 30 feet from the train. Multiple chest contusions, acute respiratory distress on the scene. Massive trauma to the left arm. We tried to stop the bleeding, but it’s profuse. Must have nicked an artery.” One of the EMT’s state the victim's status with urgency, looking to anyone for instructions to hand the patient off. 

“Dr. Collins, take him to trauma four.” Dr. Anderson orders, pointing them off in the direction of the next available space. 

Hank doesn’t need to look around to acknowledge the chaotic shape of their surroundings at all; he could _smell_ it. Through the metallic-saturated air, the smeared trails of blood and viscera on the white floors — It brought back the unmistakable scent of despair and death. 

He knew that stench well.

Dr Anderson silently stares ahead with mind-numbing anticipation from the confines of the bay as the next ambulance rolls up and disengages the gurney from the back, the siren lights lighting up the front in a blend of red and blue in the morning light. The automatic doors whir wide open again and the distinct metallic clang of the gurney wheeling in resounds through the bay. And without a beat, he hears a desperate shout in the midst of their arrival. 

“I need help — somebody help!” 

What Dr. Anderson _wasn't_ anticipating to see during the influx, however, was the sight of a disheveled android donned in navy scrubs perched atop the victim’s chest, performing steady compression with the most intensive expression etched into its features. Its LED was blinking wildly among yellow and red with the exertion that was clearly putting stress on its processors, and the dire situation that was balancing it on the very line of life and death. 

“Ryan Coleman, thirty two, suffered impalement through the femur and struck his femoral artery. Sustained thirty nine percent blood loss and is stage four hypovolemic.”

Hank casts the android a fleeting glance of what could better be described as a spared look of utter consternation. It was by no means the strangest thing he’s ever seen — of course, he could drop a list as large as the hospital at that. But this was pretty high up there on that ever-growing list. He doesn’t think he's _ever_ seen an android off the streets take that much initiative without direct command to keep a man alive long enough to reach the ER. 

The EMT shortly chimes in after the android’s debriefing of the victim’s status, pulling Dr. Anderson from his musings with a deep inhale of awareness as he rushes into action.

“We secured the foreign object and controlled the bleeding, but didn’t want to touch it otherwise. It nicked his femoral artery pretty good. That bar is the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.” The man says with doubt drenching his tone, eyeing down the victim with sincere concern. 

Hank instinctively gestures the stretcher towards trauma room six, promptly shouting for a crash cart to the area. He dismisses the paramedics with an appreciative nod before turning to the unusual android, hands busy with gathering the necessary equipment to save this man’s life. 

“How long have you been doing chest compressions?” 

“Exactly nineteen minutes and forty-three seconds.” The android recalls without even a second of hesitation. 

“Alright, off. I’ll take over from—” 

“Wait,” The android abruptly holds out a hand before Hank could even make contact, watching it suddenly pause in his administration's to slightly lower his head down with focus, brows furrowed with concentration. They end up both standing there in a second of fleeting silence before the android shoots up, staring down at the victim underneath it. 

“There's a faint pulse.”

It states as if it were almost _relieved_ of the revelation from the long, strenuous effort. But Hank dismisses that notion entirely and presses an oxygen mask to the patient’s mouth, squeezing the chamber with puffs of air while intently watching the vital monitors for results. 

Strangely, his stats were improving.

“He’s stable. For now, at least.” Hank affirms, although he still had his doubts about the astounding trauma of the man’s gaping thigh wound. Exactly how he was going to remove the bar without shredding his femoral artery left him mulling over the consequences with obvious signs of distress written clear across his demeanor. The Android seems to notice his sense of unease, and chimes in.

“The viability of his leg won’t last much longer unless a decision is made within the next eight minutes.”

“Really? No shit, genius.” Dr. Anderson throws a punitive scowl at it while peeling back the layer of protective gauze. But that ends up being a terrible move.

Pressurized blood spewed out into the open air like something straight out of a slasher horror film, fluids splattering all over the white privacy curtains and dripping in pellets to the floor. A sight that made even his own heart drop with stomach-churning panic.

With a sharply drawn hiss through his teeth, Dr. Anderson hastily re-covered the wound, hardly even able to get a proper glimpse of what he was going up against beneath the thick clumps and masses of fabrics and dressings. This might’ve been a more difficult trauma than he'd anticipated. 

“Dr. Montague, page ortho right now!” He demands in the direction of the station, hardly wasting time in controlling this man’s rapidly declining state with every second his femoral spilled more blood.

“We need to control the bleeder at the source. The patient has already lost enough blood at the scene. Any more, and he _won't_ make it without an immediate transfusion.” The android allegates, and Hank couldn’t help but notice that the light on its temple shifted from yellow to blue. The look in its eyes even exposed that it had processed information curating an unspoken game plan. 

God knows what the hell _that_ was.

“I will be right back.” Is all he gets before the android takes off, leaving Dr. Anderson to tend with the patient with the three other assistants at his aid. He swears an expletive under his breath, a cursory _‘fucking androids’_ before he’s fumbling with his hands to keep the slippery packaging gauze in place — Hissing through his teeth when they soak through with blood and he has to toss them to the floor and replace. The cycle repeats, until the android returns with an arsenal of supplies cradled in its arms. The items land on the foot of the bed with a dull thump, and it scrambles to raise a urinary catheter and a 14-gauge needle up to its view. 

Dr. Anderson stares at the unusually obscure arrangement of supplies: an arterial guide wire, an occlusion balloon, and precisely 20 ccs of saline. It evades his mind initially, but a thought later leaves his brows furrowed in bafflement. Stunned into momentary silence. 

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” Dr. Anderson questioned, intrigued and satisfied with what he was seeing, but also unsure with whether or not to let the android carry on with the task of taking initiative on a rushed procedure like this. 

The slide of the catheter entering into the sliced opening of the femoral artery is the only answer in itself, no words needing to be exchanged over the android letting the procedure speak for its own. The patient's vitals subsequently stabilized, and Dr. Anderson finds himself unable to break his own gaze away from the mitigating vital monitors with a noticeable regard of a transfixed impression. 

“Where the _hell_ did you learn how to craft a REBOA from scratch?” 

The android leans back, holding the catheter in place and purposefully seizes Hank’s hand to release pressure. Hank instinctively stiffened at the unwanted touch, but he fought off the impulse to slap his hand away. Instead, he complicity lifted his hand from the victim's shattered femur, carefully eyeing the android peel back the soggy, bloody dressings.

The artery gives a minuscule spurt of blood, and halts. 

“I know how to do a lot of things, Dr. Anderson.” 

And as if to test the android's capacity, the surgeon is the first to speak up on a more leveled tone, gaze studying the other's calculating optics. Unsure.

“Yeah, I'm sure you do... What did you say your name was, again?”

He questions. Showing brief intrigue.

The question compels the android to produce a faint smile in an effort to adduce a polite demeanor in an otherwise tumultuous situation. Hank takes clear notice to that.

“My name is Connor, I'm the android sent by Cyberlife. I’m the new RK800 prototype assigned to a specialized research residency here at Harper Hospital.”

The android states, as if reading off of some kind of script.

“Seriously?” Dr. Anderson could help but elicit a scoff at that and shakes his head, eyes now occupied with examining the victim’s mangled limb to establish a theory on if there was anything left to salvage at all. All while mulling over the presence of the android standing practically over him. Interfering. “Another android sent by Cyberlife. What a surprise.” 

“I was specifically assigned to assist in the Dawson Case. But I am duly equipped to handle trauma cases outside of my objective.” Connor states matter-of-factually. But that particular comments draw’s Hank’s gaze upward to meet the android's, clearly bothered by that statement. 

“But unfortunately, I got caught up in an... unpreventable circumstance this morning. I apologize for that.” 

The comment compels a scoff to arise from Dr. Anderson. He wasn't even sure how to properly respond to that — an android apologizing to him for being late when it wasn't even expected. 

“You rolled in here performing CPR to a man near-death on a gurney after a damn commuter crash. That’s one _hell_ of an entrance on the first day if you ask me.” 

Hank confesses on an exhale, but seems unable to shake himself of the hesitation educing the breath of the unspoken words that _were_ supposed to come out, gaze reluctant on the patient underneath his still hands. He seemed to mull over it, again and again, before resting his hands down on the edge of the gurney and conveying his ensuing words with a type of weighted attrition to his tone. A muted, bitter anger. Regret.

"But before you get anything twisted in that head of yours, I want you fully aware that I do _not_ want or trust you to get your hands dirty in any trauma patient under my charge from this second forward. Keep that in mind the next time you try to perform unauthorized procedures on my patients. Understand?" Hank insists. His tone low. Hostile.

__

__

The Android's LED consequently turns cautiously yellow. Caught off guard by the sudden shift of tone.

"Yes, Dr. Anderson. I apologize If I've overstepped any boundaries. It wasn't my intention." Connor says apologetically. 

In a second-long interval of tentative silence from the man at that, Dr. Anderson's attention was suddenly swept up by the sound of a shout originating from the opposite side of the trauma bay before he could spare another response to the android, urging him to recast his attention at the spoken urgency of his name. Immediately, he retracts the gurney from the trauma room with practiced ease at the sight of the scrubbed-up orthopedic surgeon rushing into the over-crowded bay, giving a frantic wave of his hand in the direction of the extending hall ahead. Signaling one last available OR for the patient.

Dr. Anderson, with all urgency at hand, hardly spares a fleeting glance with the RK800 in the split-second act of maneuvering the critical patient out of the overloaded trauma center. His features downturn into a grimace though, as if considering and second-guessing himself. At the sight of the android standing off to the side, covered in the blood of the patient he attended to, Dr. Anderson decides to bite the bullet and say the one thing he figures is as good a _'thank you'_ as any.

“Android or not though, you _might_ have just saved this man’s life.” He concedes with a crucial glance, making deliberate eye contact to asseverate his point as he quickly wades past the thrum of bodies rushing across the expanses.

In the rapid receding of the surgeon's footsteps down the corridor, Connor is merely left standing there in the midst of the trauma bay's unrest, hands saturated with human blood. Exerting too much effort on shifting through conflicting orders, trying to devise what comes after what's been done. But in that brief point of unanticipated reciprocation of a kindness for it's correctly committed actions, it couldn't help but feel a sense of... self-confidence and something else undefined bristle through it's system. Yet, even with the unappealing blend of human blood and thirium that stained through the fibers of the Cyberlife-issued scrubs up to its elbows, there was a certain sense of stimulated pride to be had with it. Proof of an objective success, minus the unavoidable faults that came with it.

Connor surmises that the brief flicker of software instability bristling in the corner of its vision was not worth casting attention to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Soyeyoh's [ Fanart.](http://soyeyoh.tumblr.com/post/175626198516/clears-throat-so-i-umhospitalmedical)  
> Follow on [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/_bitchcookies) to track future updates and be the first to access early chapter sneak peeks for Triage.


	2. The Surgeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _“The more that is understood about how the human mind processes complex information, the more it becomes clear_  
>  _that certain situations are particularly susceptible to less than optimal outcomes because of these errors.”_  
>  _\- Antoinette Laskey, M.D._  
> 

The endless incursion of humans brushing past one another through crowded halls painted a surreal scene — a veritable embodiment of chaos itself. Noisy wails and frantic commands rang loud from one to another; distressed children and shaken adults mouthing unintelligible words as they lay supine on blood stained gurneys. 

Every doctor, surgeon, nurse, and low-level personnel were caught in the whirlwind; urging the RK800 to abstain from reporting to its assigned supervisor for further instructions for the time being and instead, contend with the current conflicting orders on whether or not to stay to offer emergency medical assistance without any directive to do so. 

There really was no argument to be found against it. In the end, staying was the most logical choice. 

At the sight and sounds of all the unruliness, there was still a structure of specific orders in the periphery of Connor’s vision to the self-assigned mission: **Tend to the Wounded**. There was no real emotional compass to direct the android, no coddling the shaken in the performance of its clean cut objective — not when there was only enough time and resources to treat and go. Anything else besides the basic scripted assuagement simply wasn’t part of the android’s programming. Besides, the victims were too out of it to even notice or mind the fact. 

Though amidst the shuffle of unrest, there was a familiar glimpse of something that caught the android’s eye. A silver wedding ring glistened underneath glaring bright lights as a gurney interjected the trauma room. The victim’s hand fell over the edge, limp. Bloodied. It was familiar. 

The extremity was scanned from afar. Subsequently, It indicated as belonging to Clara Coleman. 

Everything happened in a blur thereafter. Lost within the bestir sea of bodies tending to their triaged patients pressed against crowded corridors, the RK800 watched from the sidelines as the heavily unconscious woman was rushed off. Her limp hand swung over the edge of the gurney with every bump it incurred along the way, and a trickle of blood dripped down from the lengthy tips of her manicured fingers, leaving a trail of red speckles on the white floors with every inch of the way. 

At the sight of the woman’s sickly face and the massive trail of blood she left behind, however, something of an unanticipated, all-encompassing foreboding feeling writhed its way through a cluster of synthetic nerves like an unnatural heavyweight. 

Something about the sight of this situation was _wrong_. 

There was every telltale sign of Clara Coleman’s demise on display as clear as day; with the masses of darkened blood clumping against her silken shirt and sticking to her skin from the fast-succeeding hemorrhage. The fluctuating probability of survival in her rapidly decaying state hadn’t gone unnoticed, and it was abnormal enough to adamantly pursue after the irregularity in search of an answer.

A sense of counterfactual evidence staring it right in the face urged Connor to kneel down at the small spillage of blood and touch the fluid at the edge of its fingertips, lifting it up to clear view. It takes note of the fact that the initial diagnosis made on the victim at the scene and the current visual evidence of her declining state weren’t matching up. There was some clear underlying anomaly to the woman’s rapidly declining condition.

An interface analysis program prompted in an instant of retrieving the fluids, an abundance of information materializing across the android’s vision. Time seemed to stop briefly as the data accrued, and Connor’s LED fluctuates yellow with the internal flow of information, carefully studying every aspect of the details in its vision.

> **FRESH BLOOD**  
>  **DNA Analysis: COLEMAN, Clara**  
>  **Sample Date: >1 minute**  
>  **Type: O-**
> 
> **ANEMIA DETECTED**  
>  **LOW HGB 7 g/DL**
> 
> **GENETIC ANOMALY DETECTED**
> 
> **VARANT IN FBN1 GENE**
> 
> **Fibrillin 1 Protein Abnormality Detected**

The android’s features shift with focus. It rises back to a standing position unnaturally smooth and carefully steps away from the smear of blood on the ground, waiting through the analyzation process in perfect stillness. 

> **Processing Sample. . .**
> 
> **CONGENITAL DISORDER DETECTED. SEVERAL VARIANTS IDENTIFIED.**
> 
> **REPORT TO LABS FOR FURTHER TESTING OF PATHOGENIC VARIANT**

Connor instantly averts its focused gaze from the blood sample, to the coterie of medical personnel wheeling Coleman down the hall. Its fingers flexed inwards on themselves with the dawn of a realization that left the android distracted with a sense of trepidation with the newfound information. 

The blood sample returned positive for an unidentified disorder — all the markers pointing to a previously undetected genetic anomaly. 

And the last time the android was aware, the abnormal amount of blood loss was staggeringly severe. If left unnoted on a file in a trauma case like this, the body already under the tremendous amount of labor-induced stress with no one else aware of this unseen predicament, that could mean —

Connor’s eyes immediately follows the blood trail to the source with a sense of alarm, objective in peripheral view rewriting itself with urgency.

**| INTERCEPT PATIENT Clara Coleman**

The RK800’s gaze rushes to lock sights on the woman in impending danger, gravitating in the direction of the large faction around the bounding gurney that was diverting down the main corridors. They hadn’t gone far, they were still well within sight, but there was still a list of supplies to retrieve in order to administer adequate medical treatment to the woman. However, risking the patient to slip out of its sight in an already critical state was out of the question. 

Connor hastily glances around, looking for the nearest android personnel on duty, moving to tightly navigate through the crowd of bodies in the halls to approach the nearest one in sight — Blood smeared dark all over the front of its model printed Cyberlife-issued scrubs. Eyes unreactive, but moving with urgency at the pace of the rest of the hospital. 

Connor reaches out to the android, its attention gathered by clasping its forearm with bare chassis to chassis contact. A rushed exchange of data flows from one to the other in mere seconds.

  


**_Deliver TWO pouches of O- Blood and Injectable Labetalol Hydrochloride to patient COLEMAN, CLARA on FLOOR 4, OB/GYN. EAST ELEVATOR ENTRANCE. URGENT DELIVERY._ **

  


The temple of both android’s emit the same blue glow, a steady whirl matching up from both LED’s following the brief transfer of information. Once the exchange was complete, the female android spares an understood nod and carries on through the rush of people without a word, leaving Connor to shuffle back through the halls and reinstate full attention back to the woman’s location. 

Connor’s eyes remain focused on the sight of the female paramedic holding an ambu bag over Clara’s mouth with consistent squeezes for oxygen, intent in her operative to keep the victim breathing. It was the sweat on her brow, the strands of messy brunette hair sticking to her forehead and the intense reflection in her eyes that measured the unrestrained effort she warranted for the patient at her hands. Fighting to keep up with the frantic rush and the swarm of information overload as the others barked orders and shouted vitals.

_“Oxygen stats dropping. She’s not holding well, Phillips.”_

Connor hears the paramedic state to her counterpart across the gurney, who seems to exchange looks of concern with her and utter an absent _‘come on’_ under his breath.

In the transition from paramedic to surgeon hands, a team of androids handled the exchange in the corridor reaching the east wing elevator with ease. The status update briefings among them were interchanged hastily before paramedics parted to make way for the patient to go forth.

Taking the fast exchange as the cue to intervene, Connor rushes down the same hall it pursuits them on, pace quickening when the arrival light above the elevator admittance doors chimes. 

A timer materializes in its vision. 

> _**00:00:05** SECONDS **REMAINING**_

_“Wait!”_ Connor exclaims, failing to catch the attention of one of the surgeons as the elevator doors slid open. There’s almost a lurch of concern that weighs tight in its chest when the gurney is pulled and positioned carefully into the tight space of the elevator, words gone unheard by the leader figure paying intensive focus to the patient at their hands. 

Connor’s pace quickens. Narrowly gliding past the abundance of wandering bodies with skilled ease. And just moments before the elevator doors slide shut, the android manages to just narrowly wedge into the space with seconds to spare, squeezing up against the gurney to fit in the already crowded space. And for just a second, there’s a brief rush of relief. 

But immediately, something moist and warm register viscous on the palms of both of Connor’s hands as it leans against the gurney from lack of space. Difficult to ignore when sparing a glimpse down at Clara laid out still, appearing sickly. 

There was a _staggering_ amount of blood.

It was alarming. Connor is fully aware of the average amount of blood humans make up. Nine pints of blood in the average woman, or 1.2 gallons. A human can typically manage to survive without 35% of their blood volume before catastrophic damage begins to take place. 

Connor’s scan revealed that Clara’s blood volume loss was at 37.9%. 

“Excuse me, where are you taking the patient?” Connor urgently inquires, hands already at work of assessing the patient’s state to come to a solid conclusion of an unworked theory.

“She is being taken to OR 3 in Obstetrics for an emergency cesarean.” The accompanying android states while occupied with the task of connecting IV fluids. 

Connor leans over and takes Clara’s hand, smearing the blood off to briefly examine the structural shape of her noticeably bony fingers under the light. They were long — abnormally longer than the average woman’s. Even the built structure of her chest bone, visible with the silken white shirt cut in half to make room for monitor electrodes, was protruding outwards at a slightly unnatural angle. Stretch marks laid visible on the surface of her skin in accompany, where a lack of weight apart from the pregnancy was apparent.

“I’m sorry, what are you doing?” One of the male androids at the anterior of the gurney suddenly pipes up, staring at Connor with an expectant look across its face.

“I’m checking something.” Connor simply says, not tearing its eyes away from the patient. 

The android doesn’t say anything else after that, but it does watch with a matching amount of interest. 

It was impossible for Connor not to notice the unnatural curvature of Clara’s spine with her lying flat on the gurney — another noticeable feature of this anomaly. It wasn’t common in humans of this generation, according to the health database, and without the layers of fabric occluding the androids overall view of the patient, the android was able to see everything in a new light.

Connor leans over the woman’s face and carefully pries one of her eyelids open, examining ocular structure and pupil reactivity beyond her green iris.

That’s when Connor saw it; locking the pieces of the puzzle together. Caught in the initial stages, but still there.

> **ECTOPIA LENTIS DETECTED.**
> 
> **ultra-sensitive C-reactive protein DETECTED**
> 
> **CAUSE VARIANT IN FBN1 GENE FOUND.**
> 
> **REGISTERING SEARCH QUERY. . . MULTIPLE RESULTS FOUND**
> 
> **DISCOVERABLE DIAGNOSIS MATCHING INQUIRY | MARFAN'S SYNDROME**
> 
> **SEEK FURTHER TESTING FOR DETAILED DIAGNOSIS**

“I’ve found something,” Connor starts with a sudden sense of awareness, alerting the others in the elevator with sudden attention.

“She has Marfan’s Syndrome.” The RK800 raises its gaze from the patient, hands stained with blood. “The patient is manifesting all the main factors of Marfan’s Syndrome. I executed a careful detailed blood analysis, along with a physical scan for confirmation. This might also explain the reason for the excessive bleeding. Marfan’s weakens connective tissue and can cause serious heart complications, along with—” 

_“Oh, you've got to be kidding me.”_ One of the doctors — Connor identifies as Dr. Tina Chen, first year resident — breathed unsteadily over her last words. The doctor looks to Connor with anxiety in her dark brown eyes. 

“She’s already had two milligrams of epinephrine earlier for cardiac distress.” 

Connor stills at the revelation, staring at Dr. Chen for a brief moment before looking back down at the woman, both hands pressing to the sides of her neck to run another scan. 

_“How was I supposed to know?_ Marfan’s —“ She scoffs incredulously. “I didn’t know!” Dr. Chen exclaims with disbelief and fright, fingers tight around the metal bars of the gurney. 

The patient’s vitals were critically unstable. Her heart was pounding, perfusing blood. Too much blood. 

“This isn’t good.” Connor says absently, pulling its hands away to analyze the data that accrued in its vision. 

The temperature of her skin was registered at an abnormal 96.4 F, signs of severe diaphoresis visually present with the way her hair matted to her pale face and small droplets of sweat riveted down her neck. Connor took her hand in its own, using a clean part of the gurney’s white sheet to clean off the blood on her fingertip before pressing firmly between its own. Capillary delay. 

The masses of blood that settled around her lower half was alarmingly new — Connor registers this as a severe class four hemorrhage — and the thready pulse when pressing two firm fingers to her jugular was increasingly worrying. It could visualize her circulatory system straining; the heart too unstable to maintain perfusion, triggering a scan warning in Connor’s vision: **Myocardial Ischemia Detected. Aortic Trauma Detected.**

“There’s a small tear in the aorta — she’s having an aortic dissection.” Connor states with a slight waiver of alarm in its voice. The EKG machines at the foot of the gurney going haywire with an irregular pulse. Warnings, red lights pulsating. 

“What?” Dr. Chen utters on a tone tipping on mild panic, her eyes going wide. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

_“God,”_ Dr. Chen exhales, visually distraught. “She was in cardiac arrest earlier, I had to. The paramedics gave her one during transport, I gave her another dose when she arrived. None of us knew she had Marfan’s. That’s — That’s unbelievably rare.” The doctor utters behind the back of her gloved wrist in disbelief. 

“You did the right thing in the scenario to keep her stable long enough, though you were just not aware of her circumstance. Marfan’s would explain the source of her weakened heart and severe bleeding. There is an internal bleed in the chest wall triggered by this disorder that consequently caused her vitals to plummet. According to the database, these signs are synonymous with spontaneous aortic dissection by cause of Marfan’s Syndrome.” 

”Oh my God. This is all my fault—” Dr. Chen utters, her shoulders tense. Though she isn’t showing any signs of doubt towards the android’s diagnosis, she is displaying clear signs of dread and overflowing panic at her mistake. 

“This wasn’t your fault. Your intentions weren’t to inflict harm,” Connor tries to assure. “But if you aim to fix this situation, I need you to remain focused so that you can help us treat this woman accordingly.” 

Dr. Chen hesitates at that, mouth opening and closing with indecision before eventually, concluding with a slight affirmative nod and straightening her posture with an exhale. “Yeah— Yeah, I know.”

The elevator doors whir open in that moment and Connor is the first to step out, taking the gurney along by the anterior with a firm pull. Right away, the android begins to formulate a plan. 

“Contact a cardio surgeon immediately and get them to OR three. Tell them it’s urgent. You’re going to need as many hands as possible for this procedure.” 

Dr. Chen spares a nod in accession and pulls a device from the deep pocket of her lab coat to make the call. And just then, a womanly android in white nursing scrubs comes sprinting up in urgency behind Dr. Chen, hands clutching a blood bag and a freshly sealed injectable needle. 

“For Clara Coleman. Labetalol hydrochloride and O negative blood.” The android says over the clamor, searching for someone to hand the items off to with haste.

“Over here.” Connor extends a hand out, to which the android willingly hands over the items to and departs shortly after.

The RK800 meets Clara at the edge of the gurney and sheds the syringe of its safety wrappings before connecting the needle to her already existing intravenous line. A thumb presses down on the plunger until the liquid disperses through clear tubing and flows through her veins, and the needle is pulled and immediately replaced with IV fluids to flush afterwards.

“Labetalol — Isn’t that for severe hypertension?” Dr. Chen pipes in, voice edging on apprehension as she pockets the tablet back into her white lab coat.

“Correct. This should counter the effects of the epinephrine still running through her system and slow her heart rate. The heart will perfuse less blood and prevent more damage to the tear in the aorta. But we’re going to have to keep an extremely close eye on her vitals. The dissection isn’t looking good, and I’m seeing signs of worsening fetal distress.”

“Right. And I’m guessing that’s for the blood transfusion.” Dr. Chen gestures to the blood bag. “You work fast.” 

Connor rests its gaze down to the pouch, unraveling the connective IV tubing to attach to the patient at hand. 

“I’m just doing what needs to be done to save the patient’s life.”

Though, before Connor could even reach for the gurney, there was a sudden force stopping it, pulled away by a firm hand reaching out to gently seize Connor by the shoulder. Connor immediately redirects its gaze to the scrubbed android that had suddenly taken hold. An MC800. Or rather, the certified android surgeon on duty.

“In accordance with hospital policy and regulations, I need proof of your identification and clearance level for surgery before you proceed any further. This is mandatory for all android personnel.” The android states, waiting expectantly.

Connor’s hand immediately reaches for the identification badge pinned to the front of its scrubs, but it noticed something wasn’t right. Both eyes flicker down to see if the badge had shifted or had been hastily pinned elsewhere, but it wasn’t. Connor stilled. 

It wasn’t there. 

It must have gotten lost in the accident, earlier. Connor slightly clenches its hands with regret and lowers both arms back to its sides, meeting the MC800’s waiting gaze.

“I seemed to have misplaced my badge, but I can transfer my identification data to you instead.”

Connor outstretches an arm towards the MC800 and clasps a hand around its forearm, skin slowly stripping back to reveal white chassis underneath. The exchange takes seconds, both LED’s whirling yellow before the physical contact ceases. The arm link is disbanded, and the MC800 begins to speak. 

“The information you have provided indicates that you have been assigned A clearance, however you are not—“

 _“Jesus Christ, does it really matter?”_ Dr. Chen chimes in, taking the gurney by the helm to take initiative and tug it down the hall with her. 

“We don’t have time to waste just standing around in idle chit-chat, just get this android and the patient into surgery right now. _That’s an order._ ” The doctor points a finger towards the end of the hall in a gesture to go, and the MC800 instantly obliges and carries on with the patient in tow.

But she stays lingering behind, purposefully slow to keep Connor at her side.

“I’ve contacted a cardio surgeon — they should be here any second.” She starts, speed walking behind the androids rolling the gurney with Connor trailing at her side. “Regardless, It said you had A clearance and you clearly know what you’re doing, so I need you to accompany the rest of them in surgery. They need me over in OR 5.” 

“I—I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Connor reiterates, almost caught off guard by the notion of performing an unauthorized surgery of the woman he rescued. “With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t think I’m —“

“Like you said, we need as many hands as possible. You have hands. Perfectly capable ones. You’ll be fine, just go.” Dr. Chen nudges Connor forward by the back of the shoulder to follow the trail of the MC800’s into surgery, to which Connor only glances ahead with mild trepidation. 

The MC800 gestures in the direction of the desterilization room encompassed by glass windows, where a technician and an additional unrecognizable scrubbed surgeon were already lingering, waiting for the patient’s arrival. 

“If you’re going to be accompanying, hurry up.” The surgeon states flatly, disappearing behind the double doors.

Connor could do nothing else but begrudgingly step inside as instructed.

As the gurney rolls into the operating room for the patient to be transferred to the table for prep, the RK800 redirects its attention to the unfamiliar presence in the sterilization room, slightly put off by the unnerving silence that hung in the air. 

While the android technician on duty fetched a packaged sterile gown to prepare from the automatic dispenser, the nameless surgeon walked right past Connor, feeling a rush of cool air whirl past it and a pair of eyes practically burn into its back as Connor lowered its arms underneath a silver apparatus with a glowing light to signal activation, letting the system disinfect every inch of exposed synthetic skin in silence. 

That’s when Connor heard a voice ring from the other side of the room. 

“I haven’t seen you around here before.” 

Connor abruptly slows in its scrubbing motions, gaze focused on the disinfecting fluid swirling down into the connecting drain, rather than turning around to take a glimpse at the source of the surgeon’s unusually fluid-as-velvet voice, one of which carried an inflection of drawn suspicion. 

Connor didn’t say a word, but sustained an air of disregard to the remark. 

“Not one to talk much, are you?” The other implies gently behind the surgical mask, eyeing Connor as it moves its hands from out under the stream to allow the system to deactivate.

Connor lightly shakes its hands of excess fluid before turning to the male figure, hands held out close to its front to prevent contamination. Locking intent gazes with one another in a sort of muddled unspoken question of authority, Connor physically displays itself apathetic to the intensive emerald optics staring back at its own, but sooner finds itself internally lured by this stranger for some odd reason. There’s a slight shift of Connors brow that the other seems to have noticed then. 

“Don’t worry,” The figure assures with a sort of gentle and harmless intention, and that was enough to ease Connor’s stress levels by even just a slight miniscule percentage. “We’re all kind here. Well, for the most part — I can’t speak for some people.” 

Connor takes note to the impish shrug coming from the surgeon’s shoulders followed by a light chuckle, devoid of any threatful intentions, and Connor then chooses to spare a conversation to the stranger in full scrubs. It figures they’re not so bad.

“It’s not that I’m intimidated, as you seem to think.” Connor states, its eyes trained on the other. “I’m just here to do what I need to do.”

“Good. Glad to have you on the team, then.” The surgeon says, intrigued. “Because this isn’t going to be an easy procedure — even for us.” 

Connor notices the aversion of its gaze turn over to the glass windows, urging the RK800 to do the same for a brief moment. 

The woman was absolutely still, skin pale. Her body laid flat on the table with cables cascading over the edge of the surface in a display akin to a waterfall of color. Hooked up to a surrounding of monitors, the miniscule nodules scanned the threads of her vitals, the muffled signal heard even from behind the glass. 

Soon, both of their hands would be covered in more blood; fingers gripping a scalpel, slicing into human flesh. It made Connor’s fingers reflexively clench and unclench, unsure of how to process this odd feeling of diffident anticipation. But in returning its attention back to the figure at its front to evade its own thoughts, that’s when Connor noticed something it hadn’t before. 

An LED glowing blue against the temple of the masked surgeon. 

Though, the android had beat it to saying something before Connor could even mention anything about it, canceling that entire revelation out of mind with something else entirely. But a sense of intrigue and just a little perplexity still lingered in the rear of Connor’s mind.

“My name is Markus, by the way. I would shake your hand, but they’re sterile at the moment. Can’t risk contamination, I’m sure you understand.” The android waves its latex-clad fingers in the air to prove its point, no doubt smiling behind the mask it wore.

Connor eyes the Android with a sort of studying gaze, put off by something about the nature of this one. Something it just couldn’t place its finger on. Until —

“You’re the cardiothoracic surgeon.” Connor says in revelation.

“Head of.” Markus corrects with the slightest inclination of gratification to its tone. 

“How is that? You’re an android.” Connor states, disregarding the tech tying the strings of a gown around its form. “I thought —“

“Well, Ideally I wish I could stay here and tell you how I got ranked, but at the moment we have a patient in the other room with an aortic dissection and a suffocating fetus, so it’s probably best we don’t waste any time. Let’s hurry.” The surgeon intently lowers its tone with a newfound urgency, stepping away to enter the theatre to get a head start. 

Connor gives a slight terse nod of its head in acknowledgement to the comment, a quick “of course” given in response as the tech expands sterile gloves over its fingers, stretching them snug over its wrists. The elastic band gives a sturdy _‘snap’_. 

Connor’s eyes intently follow the android’s passage into the operating theatre as the technician swiftly ties a surgical mask over the front half of Connor’s face in completion and grants it clearance to join the others. Sending the RK800 off with a foreboding aphorism.

_“Into Armageddon, you go.”_

  


____

  


Positive results were a bleak thing in trauma cases, but the question would always ultimately come to rise regardless of any amount of awareness in the actual truth.

“What do you think are the actual chances we can restore this man’s limb?”

Surgical tools shifted against one another with a metallic _clink_ , a frustrated sigh slipping out from behind the mask of the surgeon wielding them between steady fingers. 

“Imagine trying to sew _ground beef_ back together.” The surgeon answers flatly.

“Yeah, _just great._ ” Dr. Anderson sighs heavily under his breath, staring down at the innards of the man’s exposed femur in deep contemplation with a 15-blade scalpel. No matter how much he’d hoped to receive the better end of an answer to an otherwise hopeless question, he was right. It would take an honest to God miracle to restore this mess.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a leg this messed up before.” The man leans away from the patient's wide open leg with an exasperated exhale. “The femur was completely fractured from the impact, top to bottom. There’s fragments of bone everywhere. I’m not sure there’s anything _to_ save. Look —“ Moving away from the femur, the surgeon moves down to the patient’s heel and lifts the sterile sheet, exposing both feet. Drastically different in shades of color.

“That’s his good leg there. You can see the circulation is fine, and capillary response is good. But on the other one, there’s no circulation. Completely pale. When you press here,” He briefly pinches the tip of the patient’s toe, but it remains pale white. “No capillary response.” Dr. Millers slightly pushes himself away from the patient on the wheels of his stool chair.

“You saw it yourself, Dr. Anderson. His femoral artery is irreversibly damaged. That REBOA that android constructed in the ER was enough to stop the blood loss from the cutoff point overall, but it wouldn’t do much to restore the destroyed artery itself. There’s no restoring this with a simple needle and thread.”

“Which means realistically, we only have a matter of hours to make a decision before this entire leg dies — yeah.” Hank muses to himself, just before uttering the phrase no one ever wants the misfortune of hearing. Not even the surgeon at the helm of it. 

“Any idea who his next of kin is to give consent for amputation, then?” 

“Woah, wait. Just a minute.” The surgeon’s brows shoot up with a start, extending both his hands out in a hold-on gesture. “We still _have_ time to come up with a plan. I never said this was a lost cause. His own femur and artery might be irreparable, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be replaced, right?” The surgeon abruptly stood up and paced around the operating table, assessing the leg damage in a new light. 

“We _have_ the technology to do something to fix this. We — We can replace the whole femur with the new titanium model and for his femoral artery, we can implant one of the newer artificial conduits with the T1.5 prototype —“

Dr. Anderson stared at him in stupefaction. 

“Dr. Miller. Are you _serious?”_

Hank lets the scalpel clatter into the metal basin the female surgical technician had handed over to him and turns to face Dr. Miller, hands hovered in front of him to avoid contamination.

“Look, I understand that your specialty is in trauma orthopedics and you might replace bones all the time, but when was the last time you’ve seen anyone salvage nonrepairable, shredded arteries or bones without complications? This is a _massive_ trauma, not just a clogged artery we can do a quick and easy bypass on.” 

“We might have all the fancy technology in the world, but that doesn’t mean his body will be able to handle the strain from the mile long list of surgeries, or the lifetime of physical therapy. _And then_ there’s the risk of irreversible muscle damage, too. Rejections. Infections. The success rate for the T1.5 prototype is only 48% — Think about this for a minute.”

Hank presses the back of his covered wrist to his masked forehead and releases a stressed exhale. Attempting to gather his thoughts.

“With all due respect, Chris. I don’t think this is the right call. The man’s leg is already dying. By the time we actually get our hands on a sterile titanium femur from the lab and get every consent form known to man _signed_ for this procedure, the leg will already be beyond the point of salvage. It might start necrotizing by that point. The poor bastard’s already been without perfusion long enough. If we keep shunting him, we might give the guy an embolism that’ll definitely kill him. We could be doing more harm than good by doing this.”

“Hank — I get where you’re coming from. I understand the risks we’re gambling with here, but I can’t just amputate when I _know_ there’s another option.” Dr. Miller says with a clear inflection of determinate emotion in his tone, compelling Hank to fall silent.

He turns his eyes away at that. 

“Don’t you think this man would want us to at least _try_ to save his leg? I can’t look him in the eye when it’s all been said and done and tell him that was the only option when it damn well wasn’t.” Dr. Miller states determinedly, eyes intense with a working stratagem. 

“There’s always another way, Hank.”

Dr. Anderson falls silent, brows furrowed behind the protective eyewear on his face. It bothers him where it really aches because he knows Dr. Miller is right. Years of medical experience tells him that the only correct option is to amputate, but human nature urges him to listen to that glimmer of hope in the very back of his mind. That little voice of reason — that universal and undying characteristic of human empathy. 

But then again, what about the still-lingering consequence of having to potentially face a terribly poor judgement clouded by human nature when all’s been said and done? Dr. Miller’s fair argument had constructed an internal conflict that left Hank more than emotionally torn between choosing one side of a coin. 

On one hand, if one of them accidentally kills this patient during an extensive procedure like this, there goes wasted funds, a strict meeting with the board, _and_ the tragic loss of a man’s life. But on the other hand, if this procedure is successful and they save the man’s leg and his entire life… 

Eventually, Dr. Anderson speaks up again. This time, more lenient. 

“Exactly how confident _are_ you in doing a procedure this advanced?” 

Dr. Miller visibly piqued his interest at the unanticipated question. He straightens up immediately.

_“Very.”_

Hank shifted on his feet, clearly still having an internal moral dilemma despite letting human empathy overrule his decision. 

“We’re still going to need consent for this, you know. From the next of kin _and_ the board. We may not get it on time.” 

“I’ll make it happen.” Dr. Miller constructs a confident demeanor behind his protective gear, and God, Hank could just hear it in his voice. “Just wait. I’ll prove to you I can pull this off.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get too cocky, or you’ll jinx this entire thing and we’ll both be fucked.” Hank turns his head away in disregard with a wave of his hand, hiding his frustration behind his surgical mask. “Just… don’t go around killing my patients, you hear? Because not only will the board be on our case, but I will personally shove my foot so far up your—“ 

“For _heaven’s_ sake, Hank.” The surgeon says exasperatedly, then a slight smile cracks at his serious demeanor. “That’s the last thing I’m trying to do here. Who do you think I am? Cut me some slack here.” Dr. Miller’s shoulders shook with a light scoff, partially amused at how monotonous Hank had delivered his threat over the leg of his patient he was leaned over. 

“Yeah, alright.” Hank utters absently, turning his gaze away. 

Dr. Miller decides to end that exchange without another slip of the tongue. Left satisfied with his decision in the matter and intent to keep it that way. 

“You know if there any word on the man’s wife?” Hank mutters in question to Dr. Miller, clearly trying to abate any thoughts of failure by changing the subject.

“How do you know he has a wife?”

Dr. Anderson points the scalpel at the patient’s left hand.

“The ring on his finger.” 

“Ah,” Dr. Miller raises his head in avowal at the revelation, but soon follows with a negatory shake to the question. “No, no clue.”

“Hm,” Dr. Anderson hums in acknowledgement, his focus occupied on extracting bone fragments from the man’s leg. Though either way, he still carries on speaking. 

“I remembered hearing Ryan say something when he was coherent a little bit earlier, kept saying a name over and over — _Clara._ Could’ve been his wife.” Hank slowly lifts a tiny fragment of bone in between forceps and drops it into the metal basin. “And, technically, the wife would be next of kin to give consent but if she was indisposed in the accident too, looks like we might have to make a phone call to the parents.” Hank grumbles under his breath, following a sigh. “Hayes?”

The call of the assistant’s name urges the woman to raise her head in awareness, posture straightening up. 

“Yes, Dr. Anderson?”

“Will you get an update on Ryan Coleman’s wife? See if she’s been entered in the system since 6 AM. Her name is Clara Coleman. Otherwise, see if you can get in contact with the man’s family.” 

“On it.” The assistant nods firmly and navigates around the operating table to exit the theater — Dr. Miller sees in the corner of his vision the assistant as she skillfully removes her gloves and lifts an electronic tablet up to view, scrolling through what was presumably the triage admittance list. She steps over to the wall phone, and her lips move with unheard words. 

“Alright, meanwhile, let’s finish cleaning this leg up the best we can. We’ll place a temporary shunt in the leg and close him up for now.” Dr. Anderson discloses, pulling out the last visible fragment of mangled cartilage that he could see and drops the forceps into the metal basin with a clatter. “And let’s hope with fingers crossed this man doesn’t face any more complications.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” Dr. Miller grimaces behind his mask as the additional surgical assistant passes over a sterile tubing system in a package to the surgeon, handling it between delicate tools to hold near the clamped femoral artery.

“Ah, actually, c’mere really quick and hold this in place for me, will you?” Dr. Miller requests, scooting over a few steps to allow space for the other surgeon to step into space. Hank simple acquiesces without word and handles the artery between stable fingers, both men carefully rewiring the artery to an artificial shunt in absolute silence. 

Until Dr. Miller speaks up, almost absent in the way he spoke his words. As if he were voicing his thoughts out loud, rather than in his head.

“You know, that android didn’t do a bad job at all with the endovascular balloon. You said it made that from scratch from parts it just _found_ in the supply room?”

Hank only spared a contemplative _‘mhm’_ in response, his gaze focused on the blood vessels cinched between two clamps for repair. He really tried not to think about the strange android in the emergency room. Simply busies himself with the task at hand, instead.

“I mean damn, gotta give credit where credit is due.” Dr. Miller states on a huff, impressed. “Ryan here would’ve probably died if it weren’t for the android’s quick thinking. You mentioned it was here for the Dawson case — do you know if it’s gonna be working here long-term?” 

“Look, I don’t _know._ ” Dr. Anderson snaps, his tone harsh and more annoyed, than anything. “The only thing I’m worried about right now is making sure I don’t fuck up this guy’s artery any more than it already is. I don’t care where that thing came from, or where it’s gone now. It might have saved this man’s life, but that’s it.”

“That’s it then, huh?” 

“Yeah, now shut up and let me work.”

Dr. Miller furrows his brow with diligence and side-glances his peer, clearly with the intent to dig deeper into Dr. Anderson’s discernment in the discussion of the android, but just then the double doors open wide. The assistant stands there, ready with an update.

“I just got word on Ryan Coleman’s wife.” Hayes says, eyeing between the two men. 

“Go ahead.” Dr. Miller says insistently, turning his eyes away from Dr. Anderson and glancing down at the patient under the edge of his needle and thread.

“Clara Coleman _is_ on record of being admitted into the ER earlier at 7:13 AM this morning. She’s been admitted to OR one in obstetrics. She’s in surgery right now.”

“She’s pregnant? Did they say what happened?” Dr. Miller asked, brows etched in a thoughtful look. 

“Um— ” The assistant seemed to hesitate with her words before continuing. Her lips opening and closing with unsure intent, head shaking slightly in an incredulous manner. 

“Pretty much everything you can think of.”

Dr. Miller’s brows shift, tensive. 

“Couldn’t be any worse than this guy though, right?” Dr. Anderson interjected.

“I don’t know, maybe. Clara Coleman is in surgery for an emergency c-section and open heart surgery _simultaneously_. They didn’t give me any other details except that. She’s getting transfused for massive blood loss, too. The admittance report states the woman arrived in extremely critical condition. She seized and went into cardiac arrest during transport.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hank mutters, shoulders falling with a tense breath of air. “She’s _delivering?_ Who’s performing what?”

“An MC800 and two other androids were registered in the operating theatre, but... one of them is actually showing unregistered in the system...” The assistant lowly mutters the last part in a moment of sudden discovery, taking a glance down at the glowing tablet held in the crook of her arm in absent thought. Her finger is tapping the screen to raise the details, and she lifts her gaze to meet two very expectant ones.

“I’m not sure — does an _“RK800”_ ring a bell?” The assistant looks between the both of them for an answer. 

“You’re kidding me — _God dammit.”_ Dr. Anderson seethed, clenching his jaw. Shifting on his feet in agitation at the mention of the android, a flame of frustration urged him to stop what he was doing and toss the forceps into the metal table at his side, maneuvering swiftly behind Dr. Miller who was stuck staring with profound confusion at his fuming surgery partner.

“That son of a _bitch_.” He hears Dr. Anderson hiss under his breath as he storms towards the theatre doors, feet away from leaving. “I can’t believe this.” 

“What? Hank, _what?_ What is it?” Chris raises his voice with sudden concern, his persistence demanding him to get answers before being left in the dark regarding the man’s unanticipated outburst that frankly, startled the hell out of him. In the middle of critical surgery, no less. 

“That’s the goddamn android we were just talking about!” Dr. Anderson sharply turns on his heels, throwing his hands in the air with exasperation. “The damn thing isn’t even assigned to the system yet, let alone cleared for surgery and I am not gonna leave a dying woman with her _unborn child_ in the hands of an android that doesn’t even know what the hell it’s doing in an OR. Not again.” 

“Dr. Anderson—“

“You can handle closing the rest of him up. When you’re done, take him up to ICU. If you need me, page me. I’ll be in OB.” Hank shoves past assistant Hayes with a brief and harsh _“excuse me”_ uttered under his breath.

Hayes and Dr. Miller are then left alone in the operating theatre to tend with the unsettling silence that followed in the surgeon’s egress. 

Dr. Miller scowls, turning his eyes back down to his procedure. 

“Let’s just get this over with.”

  


____

  


With every shift of the scalpel, warnings rung bright in the periphery of Connor’s vision. 

> **_FETAL VITALS IN CRITICAL STATE_ **
> 
> **_PROBABILITY OF PATIENT SURVIVAL: 48%_ **

“Keep going.” The MC800 Android on the other side of the table urges, fingers tugging into the patient’s first abdominal incision. “She won’t stabilize until we get the fetus out and locate the sources of the bleeding. We have approximately six minutes to stabilize the patient before catastrophic organ failure begins.” 

With every poke and pull, warm blood spills from the incision where the MC800 carefully cuts through skin and muscle, pulling back resilient layers of fat until the blade scrapes against a tough fibrous layer of fascia. Connor carefully observes the procedurals of fingertips working from both hands to rake against the fascia, pulling away at the surrounding fat before cutting a clean incision through layers of muscle, then a thinner, delicate layer of peritoneum that is precisely cut open with thin sharp scissors. There’s a clear visual of the internal organs, and all the wavering vital signals that followed in suit.

“Retractors.” The MC800 says, hands held out in waiting.

Connor silently obliges and picks two metal retractors from the cart, assisting with the correct angle of insertion to protect the bladder and intestine from obstruction. That’s when the vital monitors flicker red, pulsating with unwavering critical warnings. 

> _**00:05:12** MINUTES **REMAINING** BEFORE ORGAN FAILURE_

That countdown becomes a nuisance in the periphery of Connor’s vision. 

“Status on the aorta?” The MC800 questions, eyes occupied with the incisional task at hand but clearly addressing the quiet cardiothoracic surgeon at the anterior of the table. 

“Stable. For now.” Markus confidently replies in a concentrated tone, hands making careful and delicate work with the two surgical fiberoptic endoscopes in its grip, eyes glued to the visual screens at the anterior with a clean and clear visual of the woman’s aortic structure.

“I’m almost done repairing the tear in the aorta. It was a small tear, nothing big. Though this would have gone much faster and cleaner if I had the equipment in a cardiovascular operating room. She might have a nasty scar when this is over.” The Android tenses its brows on the edge of its words. 

“I’d prefer the patient have an unsightly scar rather than a black tag in the morgue. She is supposed to be a mother.” Connor states in turn, which causes Markus to just briefly spare a reflective glance in response. 

“You’re right.” Markus softly agrees. It’s green eyes are gentle. Deep. “But she can’t be a mother without a child. Let’s not devastate her when she wakes up.”

Connor looks down tautly to Clara’s womb. Pensive and observant of Markus’ words, and feeling just slightly... off. The prospect of failure in a procedure that _had_ an acceptable parameter of success was a gamble with fate Connor did not want to test the boundaries of. 

The android could only turn its gaze away from the surgeon’s, not bothering to spare a reply. There was nothing else to be said. 

“Making the uterine incision now.” The MC800 states, its optics focused. “Get ready to assist in extraction.”

Connor gives a terse nod in acquiescence, uttering a gentle _‘okay’_ from behind the medical mask before moving into position, hands at the ready. Blood and fluid come rushing out of the incision area, to where Connor observes the head of the fetus crowning through the womb.

The MC800 wraps its fingers around the small figure, gently maneuvering it through the abdominal opening until it’s shoulders breach the fissure and it comes sliding out in one swift demarche with a thick gush of warm fluids. 

Connor was agile and swift to handle the newborn human in both hands post-extraction, hastily unwrapping the umbilical cord loosely wrapped around its neck and cinching the cordage at an axial point between unconscious mother and child. The weight of the small infant was registered at approximately 7 lbs, 5 oz in Connor’s hands upon extraction, and as the MC800 cuts the umbilical cord without complication, Connor’s optics couldn’t help but focus in on the infant’s small hands. 

One of its own thumbs just slightly manages to brush against the minuscule limb, registering the feeling of fleshy, pliable skin behind thick nitrile gloves.

There was something strange and inconceivable in how the creature in its arms was a newborn _human_ — the exact identical specie of the woman that was lying on the operating table. Vulnerable. Delicate. Much too fragile. Almost unsettling in the way the bright surgical lights glistened against the quiet newborn’s rippled, bloody fluid-stained skin. Pale skin. 

It didn’t move. It didn’t even cry. That was what newborns were naturally supposed to do. 

This one didn’t. 

_Software Instability ^_

“Connor,” Markus interrupts, quickly glancing away from the cardiac monitors to flicker his gaze back and forth to assess the infant and the figure belonging to the hands holding it. “ _Vitals._ What are the vitals?”

The MC800 is the first to speak up before Connor, who seemed inexplicably left presumptively speechless in the situation with the newborn human still outstretched in its hands. 

“It’s been deprived of oxygen too long, it needs to get to the NICU right away.” 

But Connor’s LED continuously whirred yellow. Overloading with information and warning alerts.

 _“Connor.”_ Markus repeats. This time, tearing away from the monitors to fully glance at the RK800.

But before either one of the android’s could speak another word, the distal sound of a slam of a door breaks them all from their moment of tense reverie. Replaced with confusion and apprehension. 

They all turn to the glass theatre windows to see a tense, infuriated man in scrubs wrench a face mask from the dispenser before furiously bursting through the double doors, standing taut at the door frame with an accusatory gaze aimed directly at the android with the newborn infant cradled in its hands.

Dr. Anderson seemed to momentarily hesitate at the sight of the android holding the newborn at initial glance, Connor notices, but immediately rebounds in seconds to articulate the anger he intruded with. 

“I do _not_ know who you think you are, but you are not authorized for this surgery and you need to get the hell out of this OR right now before I call security.” 

“Dr. Anderson, I am unable to—”

“ _Now!”_ Hank shouts over its words with blatant disregard. _“That is an order!”_

The RK800 glances around the room amidst the verbal attack with a sudden sense of panic and alarm — an objective interrupted and orders conflicting. _Stay, go, run, stay_ — But rather than obeying command as one should have, Connor wordlessly rushes over to the bassinet stationed at the other side of the room and carefully lies the unconscious infant down on the flat cushioned surface. Movements cautious, tender. 

Connor opts to pursue its rescue objective. Refusing to abandon a patient still in critical danger.

“It needs to get to the NICU. The newborn is in critical condition.” Connor insists, disregarding Dr. Anderson’s command with a statement and instead of leaving immediately, it hooks up the infant to vital monitors, supplying oxygen via mask. “There’s a pulse, but it’s faint. It hasn’t—“

 _“What did I just say?”_ Hank repeats, but more lenient in his irritation and outrage this time. His eyes are stuck on the sight of the motionless infant in the bassinet, and something in him changes at that. “I’ll take care of it. You just… Just get the hell out of here.” The man’s voice is low, gruff with distress wavering through his tone. His stress levels had elevated exponentially. 

But even still, Connor hesitated. 

The surgical technician maneuvers the bassinet past the double doors with Connor following in suit, but that’s as far as the RK800 gets before Dr. Anderson halts it in its path with a harsh grip around the arm, forceful with the jerk he pulls on the android to maneuver the both of them into the sterilization room. Connor watches the assistant disappear down the hall with urgency. But in front of him, Dr. Anderson is infuriated. Jaw clenched, hands fisted tight around the android’s arm.

Connor’s LED consequently flickers yellow with a sense of impending danger. 

“For future reference, don’t you ever fucking disobey me _ever_ again.” Hank starts, voice low and hostile. There wasn’t a shred of kindness to be seen in his eyes.

“Dr. Anderson, I —“ Connor attempts, but is sharply interrupted. 

“Listen, I don’t give a shit if you’re here to help on a case — this hospital is not your fucking playground to go around treating patients without any of our consent, _or_ doing surgeries you aren’t _authorized_ to perform.” Hank jabs a firm finger against the android’s chest to settle his point, but Connor remains rigid, still. Emotionless. 

“Clean up, scrub out, and get out of my sight.” Hank callously demands, releasing his grip on the android and grimacing at the slick blood that stained the front of his palms. He disregardingly wipes it off on the front of his own blue scrubs with mild disgust, giving his head a slight detestful shake. He mutters something unintelligible under his breath, visibly irritated as he barges off to deal with the technician heading to the NICU and leaving the glass doors to rattle shut on their own accord. 

The room is left to bask in an unsettling silence. With no admittance permission to re-enter the operating theatre, Connor was forced to abandon the objective and reluctantly come to terms with abstaining from the operation of its patient. 

Connor barely has to turn its head to see piercing green eyes peering from beyond the glass window. They briefly meet gazes, knowingly, but Markus’s features are still unreadable behind the mask.

Connor turns away, throws bloodied surgical linens into the bin, and exits the desanitation room without a word. 

A new string of commands overlaps its vision. 

  


**New Objective | Report to Supervisor for Further Instruction**

  


_______

  


_“In current breaking news, Federal safety officials are now investigating the fatal crash of a crowded train on one of Detroit’s busiest commuter tracks. The train derailed off the tracks on Broadway and Witherell this morning at around 6 AM. Over a hundred people were injured, and about a dozen dead on the scene. Officials say that they suspect a malfunction of the commuter caused the tram to violently derail into the streets, but the investigation is still ongoing. Witnesses report—”_

_Click._

_“—Are still not aware of caused this terrible accident that killed over a dozen passengers and severely injured even more, but federal officials are working diligently in this investigation and have yet to come up with definitive answers. Live from the scene this morning from chopper seven, you can clearly see—“_

_Click._

_“ — After some witnesses claim that an android at the scene helped escort several passengers out of the crushed vestibules to safety. We have not received any updates on the status of the critically injured victims, but sources say they have been transported to Harper Hospital’s top trauma center in Detroit for emergency medical treatment. We will keep you updated on the situation as it progresses. This is Joss Douglas, reporting from channel 6 news live.”_

The transparent television had become a quiescent lull in the staff lounge, a handful of nurses idling around to listen to the news with apprehensive concern etched in their expressions. This wasn’t exactly the first instance of anything like this ever happening, but when they did, the hospital was always on edge for the remainder of the day. 

It’s been a grievous eight hours since.

It was an unthinkable sight that couldn’t quite wash out of anyone’s memory no matter how much time had passed. It still left everyone plagued with a lingering sense of dread and upset — many of the staff sitting with a nervous jitter or pacing with frantic steps. The halls were showered in unspoken tension, laden with despair and unspoken glances of emotional distress. Everywhere, no matter where the eyes would turn to glance, we’re still remnants of the devastation the early daylight brought. 

The Administrator at the helm of the disarray couldn’t take another minute of it. 

Clutching a hot cup of coffee to stir his nerves awake, Chief Fowler turns his back on the staff lounge and begins to head towards the office complex with several Manila files tucked into his arm. Patient files, confidential records, legal papers — the list never ended, and there just wasn’t enough coffee in the lounge to keep him wired long enough to deal with all of them.

Now that the worst had mostly subsided and his call to emergency intervention was no longer required for the time being, it was time to handle the smaller issues waiting for him. More notably, the one waiting on standby in meeting room 12 ensuing official assignment. 

It’s been much to his horror upon finding out that the specialized prototype android that was supposed to report for duty on an urgent case this morning had been involved in the fatal commuter accident — remarkably making it out unscathed, much to Fowler’s disbelief upon discovery. Then, without being aware of the fact until much later, the android was given unauthorized orders on abrupt arrival with a victim, forced to assist patients unregistered that posed a whole legal issue, and eventually after being located succeeding a hysterical manhunt that almost gave Fowler a heart attack on the spot in fear of his most valuable asset being lost to the fray, the man was left to deal with the dire aftermath of it all afterwards.

Eventually, the RK800 underwent diagnostics in D-Wing to repair any superficial damages from the morning, which left Fowler with just enough time to recollect all the necessary paperwork for the day, deal with all the patients from the RK800’s temporary supervision, handle the heated complaints from Dr. Anderson from the preceding, and simply take a minute to pull himself together for the remainder of the day he already _knew_ wasn’t going to be any less painless. 

He takes a weary sip from the tall cup of coffee in his clutches, hardly feeling any effect he was utterly desperate to numb himself with just enough to tolerate the upcoming hour. 

Much to his advantage, however, Fowler hardly had to waste any time sparing an announcement over the PA system when the man he intended on searching for comes bustling down the corridor in his direction. The man’s lab coat fluttered against the air current in his speedwalk, another figure trailing at his side in similar succession. The doctor hadn’t even spared a look up from the tablet clutched in his hands upon approach — brows tensive with something unseen he concentrates reading over, index finger flicking against the screen. 

Chief Fowler promptly extends his hand out to prevent the doctor from just barely passing him up, prompting the man to tear his transfixed gaze away from the tablet screen and come to an abrupt halt on his heels, lifting his head to see who was blocking his pathway. 

It wasn’t hard to catch that minuscule exhale of dread and defeat that came from the surgeon in a heartbeat following the sudden confrontation upon eye contact. Not even a _“hello”_ or _“excuse me”_. Since after a million times of this already, the doctor already had an idea of what was going on. 

“Dr. Anderson, If you have a minute, I need to speak with you in private. _Urgently._ ” Fowler states with a stern finite tone — the one Hank knew well not to question or defy. 

With a muttered expletive under the surgeon’s breath, Dr. Anderson falteringly turns to the attending at his side to relay a brief note of information without much explication to reasoning. No questions asked. 

“Just run the CT angiography on Coleman. There shouldn’t be any problems. If there is, just page Dr. Miller.” Dr. Anderson merely says to the enervated woman in his periphery, reluctantly handing over the tablet for the attending to take over for the time being. She accepts, and does so without question. 

“Will do. And — good seeing you, Chief Fowler.” The attending adds, sparing a considerate smile regardless of the weary expression written on her features. 

“Likewise, Liv.” Fowler answers with a slight deferential smile of his own, waving her off as she departs with haste to tend to patients. 

Then it’s a tense silence for the two men after that. 

“This way.” Fowler utters, barely sparing Hank the time of day with unnecessary formalities or chatter. 

The doctor silently obliges, wearily dragging a hand through the loose strands of his grey hair as he follows Fowler without complaint. 

Neither men bothered with idle chat when their exhaustion wore high. Not having the energy to deal with anything else for anything but work-related issues, that was at least the one thing they unspokenly acknowledged and understood. Thus, Dr. Anderson trails after the man towards the office complex in unbroken silence.

Soon enough, however, their uneventful walk was disrupted by Fowler coming to a halt at one of the meeting rooms instead of his own office. Hank doesn’t fail to notice this change of scene and shifts his brows with minor confusion, though he still doesn’t say anything just yet. 

At least, until Fowler opens the frosted glass door to reveal a third presence waiting among them. 

There’s an android donned in clean and immaculate scrubs standing by the wide glass windows who perks up at the newcomer’s arrival. There’s something silver flickering between its fingers in idle fidgeting, catching what was clearly a coin mid-air and casually pocketing the item when it turns to acknowledge the new presence in the room.

When Dr. Anderson’s gaze meets the all-too familiar android standing off in the administrator's meeting room, everything about the surgeon’s mood turns immensely sour when he recognized it as the RK800. _Connor._

“The _hell_ is that thing doing here?”Hank gripes, visually repulsed as he halts in the middle of the doorway to eye the android that was unreactive and still to the situation. 

At the anterior of the table, Fowler is already shaking his head at the calamity he knew was about to ensue. 

At this point, the RK800 had fully turned to address Hank with a wordless stare, an arm cradling a hospital-issued electronic tablet to its chest that Fowler already knew Hank had some obvious hunch of the thing withholding his patients records. And Chief Fowler doesn’t say a word. Instead, the man silently shuffles the files across his portion of the table, wordlessly flipping through the stack to find the relevant casework for this meeting before spreading them out for viewing. 

“Fuck, I don’t like the look of this.” Hank mutters cautiously under his breath, regarding the Android with a displeased dispositional glare and choosing to stand his ground at the doorway in defiance. 

“Have a seat, please.” Chief Fowler insists with a casual gesture towards one of the many chairs around the table, sitting down much too casually in the executive chair and threading his fingers together across his front. Waiting expectantly. 

“Can’t this just wait for another day?” Hank protests, stressfully rubbing at his head. 

“Just have a _seat,_ Dr. Anderson.” Fowler repeats with more of a bite to his tone, stirring a scowl from the surgeon.

It took ten full seconds of silence and a competitive stare-off before Hank finally shrugged his shoulders down in defeat and begrudgingly shifted into the room to reluctantly take a seat, attempting to ignore the presence of the android across from him. 

“Alright, fine.” Hank said bitterly, leaning forward with elbows rested against his knees while his hands fidgeted with one another in impatience. “What do you want with me?”

“Listen,” Fowler starts with a sigh. “I know today has been rough on all of us. We’re all exhausted here — at our physical and emotional limits. I’m aware of what you’ve been though today, but right now I need your full cooperation with me for just _one minute_ so we can get through this as painlessly as possible. Alright?”

Dr. Anderson lets out a faint exhale and shrugs in acquiescence, a few seconds passing before the doctor gestures a hand for the man to carry on before crossing his arms across his chest. Not sparing a word, to which Fowler assumes is the man’s way of expressing a little respect by opting to keep his mouth shut from spewing any smartass comments. 

Either way, the chief slightly leans back in his seat with an agreeable nod before extending an arm out towards the androids, signaling for the electronic tablet in its clutches. Connor notices this and immediately walks over upon indication, handing over the tablet and stepping out of the way to settle a few feet behind the Chief’s seat. 

“Now, I want to start by debriefing on the trauma patients you and the RK800 have conducted medical treatment on earlier this morning and update on their current status, plus any further action we need to take.”

The tablet’s screen comes to life with a bright blue glow, and Fowler’s brows shifts in concentration with what appeared on the screen after a few beats of silence. 

“Two victims were admitted into the ER this morning presenting extreme trauma, where it’s to my understanding that you and the RK800 were directly involved in.” Fowler mutters, a finger flicking across the screen. “We’ve already discussed the matters of Ryan Coleman, so there’s no need to rehash that conversation. However, I’m still struggling to understand what in God’s name happened to Clara Coleman, and why the patient is now in a coma.” 

“Starting from the beginning. The RK800 was with the woman on the scene of the accident, but did not accompany her during the ambulance trip to the ER. However, it’s to my knowledge that you found the woman after treating Ryan Coleman — Is this correct, Connor?” Fowler briefly turns to face the android, tearing his eyes away from the tablet to investigate the figure at his side.

Dr. Anderson in effect, glared spitefully at the RK800 from where he sat.

“Correct.” The android states, ignorant to the man’s stare.

“And what happened following that?” 

“After identifying the patient, I discovered an anomaly in her condition. I ran a detailed blood analysis and found a genetic irregularity in her FBN1 gene. This determined an unsuspected congenital disorder to which I wanted to confirm by performing a quick physical during transport to her operation. I found signs of ectopia lentis among other abnormal physical formations that pointed to all the markers of the patient suffering from Marfan’s Syndrome.”

“Really?” Fowler questions with interest, giving a brief pause. “And what else did you find?” 

“I had detected myocardial ischemia and discovered that Clara Coleman suffered an aortic dissection on the way to the OR. There were two milligrams of epinephrine in her system that Dr. Chen had administered to her upon admission for cardiac arrest. I speculated that Marfan’s was the reason for the dissection, as this disorder weakens connective tissue. The epinephrine exacerbated the strain on the heart, therefore causing the tear.” Connor explains with slight hand gestures, head slightly tilted to the side in recollection and concentration. 

“Then you administered Labetalol to slow down her heart rate, fully aware of the risks that came with it? Knowing well that the condition of her heart was already jeopardized?” Fowler answers with a slight scowl on his face, scrutinizing gaze focused on the tablet with the mirroring information. 

“The chances of the patient having any adverse effects to the medication were low at the time, so I acted according to this information.”

“Alright, and I see here that you also ordered for O negative blood to begin a blood transfusion.” The man mutters to himself as he scrolls through the patient files, eyes following every word. “And… what was the condition of the fetus at that point?”

“The fetus was in a critical state from forced trauma-induced labor from the accident. There were signs of severe fetal distress and oxygen deprivation. Upon delivery, the infant presented very weak vitals, was unresponsive, and was taken to the NICU by a technician. This was when Dr. Anderson pulled me aside. I do not know what happened after.” Connor explains, gaze briefly flickering between both men at the table. 

“I see.” Fowler sighs, lowering the tablet down to the table and turning to cast his attention to Hank, looking to him for further answers in the matter. “Dr. Anderson?”

Hank rubs at his face with a hand and a heavy sigh, sparing a slight shake of his head. 

“Still in critical condition. NICU did everything they could, but I’m not sure it has much longer.” Hank mutters lowly, eyes downcast at the edge of the table in front of him. 

There’s a brief pause of silence, the air weighing heavy with an oppressive disconsolation by the news. Fowler regards the revelation with firm disappointment, leaning his head into the curve of his hand to rest on.

“Great.” The Chief says with a breath outwards, tapping his fingers against the glass in silent contemplation with evident upset. “The infant is in critical condition, and the mother is in a coma, both in intensive care units. I understand the delicate state of the child, but the mother? Something like that should have easily been avoided in this hospital. What went wrong here? Is all I’m trying to understand, Hank. And as far as I’m aware, you were responsible for what happened to Clara after dismissing Connor.” 

Fowler shifts in his seat to direct his gaze at Dr. Anderson, who’s now clearly unsettled from being put on the spot.

“Listen, I don’t know what happened any more than you do. There weren’t any serious complications during the surgery to my knowledge. The MC800 android who was performing the operation said her vitals declined on one occasion, but that they managed to locate the issue and stabilize her condition. She just — wouldn’t wake up after.”

“But you were the one who closely monitored Clara after booting Connor out of the OR, right? This means _you_ were the one responsible for what happened after. You should be aware of every aspect of her condition and should have watched her like a _hawk_ , considering her delicate condition. It is your damn job as a surgeon to follow up with these things.” 

“My hands were full! I can’t keep an eye on ten thousand patients at a time! What do you want from me?” Hank raises his voice a notch, his temper on the verge of breaking. 

“I want you to take care of your goddamn patents!” Fowler frustratedly counters, hands splayed out in emphasis of his incredulous anger. “Do your job, and let _others_ do their job too, for Christ’s sake!”

All Hank does in response is sharply scoff and throw his hands up with indignation, too fed up to even retort with anything at this point. Sitting at the edge of his seat, hands on the table, it’s his turn to cradle his head in both hands supported by both elbows perched on the glass table. 

“Regardless of this, you made a good call, Connor.” Fowler starts, regarding him with a side glance. “But you _were_ aware of the fact that you were not authorized for these procedures, right?”

“Yes.” Connor says, seemingly hesitantly.

“So why did you do it regardless?” Fowler breaks his gaze from the screen to glance up at the android with an expectant stare, eyes casting judgement on the android.

“I… acted on behalf of the patient’s best interest. The woman could have died without immediate intervention and I did what was medically necessary to save the woman’s life.” Connor divulges, though with the slightest trace of apprehension behind its reasoning explanation at first. 

“Well,” Fowler starts again, though this time his tone was noticeably less hostile and more forgiving. “Despite the fact that you went against hospital regulations, you still managed to save several lives today. _Hopefully._ I can’t argue with that, but just remember from this moment on that you are not to perform any unauthorized procedures without explicit permission from a higher in command to do so. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Connor responds obediently, his LED flickering the same blue in process of this information. 

“As for you, Hank,” Fowler starts, hardly an inkling of patience left in his demeanor. “When you’re under this roof, you have an obligation. We are the last defense in their survival — our choices reflect whether these patients live or die. We have to compromise, whether we like it or not.”

“You’re not God himself, Hank. You can only do and handle so much, I get that. Of course, that goes for all of us. But when you turn around and push others away from doing their job just because you don’t want them interfering, that becomes an issue I can’t ignore. A patient’s life may have been put at risk because of this behavior and that is unacceptable. And ensuing this, I’m growing concerned about you.” 

“Me?” Hank says incredulously, brows raising with a scoff. “I should be the least of your concern. That thing standing over your shoulder should be your problem.”

Fowler swears he could almost laugh at that. But he refrains from doing so and instead, rests his arms flat against the glass table in gesture towards the doctor across from him. 

“I’m not going to waste any time beating around the bush. There’s been some serious issues with your performance as of lately, Hank.”

“What’s wrong with my performance? I perform just fine on my own.” Hank goes straight in defensive mode, but Fowler held out his hands in a gesture of reassurance. A frown is quick to pass Hank’s features.

“That’s the problem.” Fowler states, tone stern. “I’ve been receiving a barrage of complaints from your residents that you aren’t being cooperative with them or the rest of your team. You’ve been isolating yourself, keeping the cases to yourself. You haven’t been sparing your residents anything but scut work, which we both know is ridiculous knowing the absolute _potential_ and remarkable ability they have. You’re _drowning_ in case and fieldwork, Hank. This is destructive behavior, and it is noticeably affecting your duties and ability to perform up to hospital standards.”

Hank took a breath with an immediate retort prepared on his tongue, but Fowler beat him to it. 

“This is an extremely serious matter, Dr. Anderson.” 

_“I know.”_

“Which is why I’ve decided to assign the RK800 to you.”

There was a heavy silence. 

“The _hell_ do you mean?” Hank blurted out on impulse, already dreading what he was about to hear come out of his superior’s mouth. He’s already sitting up straight in his seat, all ears and little compliance. 

Chief Fowler elicits a preparatory breath. “Cyberlife sent over this state of the art prototype to help with the Dawson case. It will also act as your assistant. All newer android models are now required to go through rigorous and advanced medical test forthwith before stepping foot in any of my OR’s. Rest assured, I’ve closely monitored this particular android with my own eyes and have carefully selected it out of best interest for my hospital, and now, for your own sake.”

“You’re kidding me, Jefferey. You can’t be serious — Tell me you’re fucking joking with me right now.” Hank shoulders practically fell, hands outstretched on the man’s desk in a blatant gesture of disbelief. 

Chief Flower merely carried on with little regard to Hank’s rejection in the matter. Despite knowing this didn’t bode well with the man whatsoever, he continues nonetheless. 

“From this day forth, I am officially assigning this state-of-the-art prototype android model, the RK800 to you, Dr. Anderson.” 

“No. No fucking way.” Hank interrupts, head shaking in outrage as he throws his hands in the air. “I don’t need that plastic asshole following my every move and getting in my way. Not gonna fucking happen. Give me any other kind of punishment — not _this!_ Are you out of your _fucking mind?_ ”

“Hank, _that is enough!_ ” Chief Fowler counters with a shout, heavy fists slamming down on the wooden desk as he shot up to stand on his feet, chair forced back so harsh that it almost caught Hank off guard. The air between them took a sharp, tense turn.

“I’ve had just about enough with your disrespect and lack of cooperation. I made you head of general trauma for a reason, but your disciplinary folder is getting ridiculous, Hank. Hell, I should have you _suspended_ , because from what I have seen, you can’t seem to get your shit together no matter how much any of us even try to help you.”

“Chief, _come on_.” Hank insisted on a more leveled tone, the threat of losing his career in a heartbeat suddenly weighing down on his shoulders.

“However — I’m also aware that you are a talented and _respected_ surgeon of this medical community, and I would be a damn fool to let you go from this hospital. But do _not_ push it, because you are getting dangerously close to that edge here.” Fowler’s tone edged with withheld rage, but the other man was unphased by this.

Instead, Hank leaned over the table into slightly close quarters to his superior, lowering his voice into a near cautious whisper that was suspiciously edging on the tight line of a plea, but Fowler knew he would never jeopardize his ego like that. He was too much of a stubborn, prideful man.

“You can’t make me work with that—” Hank gestured his hand wildly at the android, a blatant lack of respect. _“Thing._ You know how much I _hate_ these fucking things. Why can’t you just hand it off to Dr. Collins?”

“Listen, I’ve had just about enough with you. Either you do your job as a doctor, or quit.” Chief Fowler steps out from behind his place at the transparent table and stands face-to-face with his attending. “Now, if you don’t mind — “ 

At that, Chief Fowler turns to Connor and suddenly hands over the electronic tablet. The android accepts it with just the slightest hint of puzzlement in its eyes, until Fowler speaks to the android directly. 

“RK800, you are hereby assigned to Dr. Hank Anderson and will report to him for further instruction. You will be registered under the patients you’ve treated today, as you have proven you are more than capable of handling them to the best of your abilities.” 

“Understood.” Connor answers with a nod of compliance.

Dr. Anderson turns away with an irate disposition, stubborn enough not to openly indicate his assent, but willing enough to shake his head with an unheard mutter under his breath. Fowler knew enough of the man to surmise that this meant he’d deal with it, whether he liked it or not. 

“Alright,” Fowler sighs, easing his shoulders and pointing a hand towards the door. “When you two have finished doing your rounds, report to meeting room two at seven, _sharp_. There’s another case we need to further discuss.”

Dr. Anderson exhales on the verge of a groan, already headed towards the exit before Fowler could even finish speaking. Before the man could even call Hank’s name, he’d already stormed out, letting the door behind him forcibly shut itself. 

Fowler shakes his head in disbelief, irritation written all over his face as he lowers his gaze to the files spread across the glass meeting table, intending to shuffle through them in silent work. That is, until the android’s leveled voice interrupts the silence. 

“I’m very pleased to have joined the team.” Connor starts with pride in it’s tone. “I can assure you I’ll do my very best —“ 

“Close the door on your way out.” Fowler interrupts in a deadpan tone, pointing a finger at the door without even sparing the slightest glance at the android. 

Connor doesn’t seem to expect the response it got, its eyes casting a glance between the man and the door with an air of uncertainty. But nonetheless, the android politely nods its head and bids the man farewell. 

“Have a nice day, Chief Fowler.” 

And the android is out the door, the automatic lock gently clicking shut behind it. 

The administrator returns to his seat at the table and stares down blankly at the array of dossiers, his mind still stuck on the whole situation. All he could do was give a heavy sigh in exhaustion and utter an expletive _“fucking hell”_ under his breath as he resumed attention to the heavy casework. 

Outside of the meeting room, however, Dr. Anderson had already been a long ways down the hall, fuming at the news. 

His palms itched with stress, hands begging to light a cigarette to appease his tense nerves. He figured a breath of fresh air would reset his temperament, this being the closest he’s been in a while to feeling this angry and fed up with a circumstance out of his control. His heart was practically pounding in his chest as if he’d just run a mile. 

Though in his intent walk to leave the building and get some air, he barely notices the additional presence catching up in a sprint behind him until he hears that voice speak up.

One that just made his blood boil.

“Dr. Anderson, would you like me to—”

“Listen,” Hank stops firm in his tracks, turning to face the android fully for the first time since their second meeting. Though, it was void of any kindness or intention to give the android orders, and he wasn’t averse to insisting on his frustrations with it. Taking a bold step forward, Hank leans in dangerously close to the android’s emotionless face. The stare he casts over the RK800 was all but friendly. It was hostile. Angry.

“Just because you were helpful for a _second_ this morning doesn’t mean that I need any more of your help. All that is over, now. And this is now. I don’t give a shit about any of your fancy technology or whatever the fuck else you’ve got. I don’t need an android telling me how to do my job as a doctor.” 

At that, Hank began to walk away again. His voice still seething with anger. 

“I’ve been doing this for over thirty years, and I don’t need someone like you to come and fuck it all up. I don’t give a shit what Chief Fowler says — _I don’t need you._ ”

“But my instructions stipulate that I am to accompany you as your assistant. I was assigned this directive and I cannot stand around and wait for you to—” Connor started, outstretching a hand to place against the surgeon’s shoulder to rouse his attention, but was suddenly startled into silence with a tight fist gripping the front of its Cyberlife-issued scrubs. 

It was harshly shoved into the glass exterior wall lining the halls, rattling it on its structure. The tablet stumbled from its grip, clattering to the ground from the shock. 

It was impossible not to notice the rapid light transition from yellow to red on the android’s temple. 

“Look— I don’t give a _damn_ what you’re here to do or where you fuck off to, but you are not following me around like a lost puppy dog all day. I _don’t_ want to work with you. I don’t have time to look after you. So you shut the fuck up, and you stay out of my way and let me do what I need to do. Got it?”

Connor was silent, the processing LED of his temple alight with bright red as its brown eyes searched Hank’s face, though its own remained unreadable. Hank took his dead set stare as their silent agreement.

Just then, his pager goes off. 

“Good. Now go away.” Hank carelessly releases the android from his grip and pushes Connor aside with a harsh nudge before rushing off to handle the alert he received, muttering an agitated _‘fuck’_ under his breath as he vanished, leaving the directionless android to deal with his own shortcomings.

Connor adjusts the V-collar of its scrubs and carefully smooths down the front of the fabric, trying to recompose itself. Connor’s LED slowly returned blue as it slowly bent down to retrieve the electronic tablet it’d dropped in the sudden affray with Hank, staring down at the screen that was alight with duties to still tend to with its new superior. But at the sight, it began to materialize some serious doubts. 

Connor wasn’t so sure working with Dr. Anderson was such a good idea. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Soyeyoh's [ Fanart.](http://soyeyoh.tumblr.com/post/175626198516/clears-throat-so-i-umhospitalmedical)  
> Follow on [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/_bitchcookies) to track future updates and be the first to access early chapter sneak peeks for Triage!


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